


Of Gits and Harpys

by Yatzuaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Humor, Romance, SMUTTY SMUT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzuaka/pseuds/Yatzuaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are always questions and there are always answers. They just aren't always what you think they are. Rated for language and adult situations (er, outright smut) in later chapters. Complete</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow Angels (a short prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of this fandom, nor do I make any money off of it.
> 
> Originally posted on FF.net
> 
> Dedicated to my peeps over on FF.net whose support carried me through to the completion of this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own nothing but my bones, least of all anything to do with Harry Potter.

1993

_What is the color of regret?_

Draco wonders this idly during divination class. A guest lecturer ( _Ha! He can't help the outrage at this misnomer_ ) spoke with little eloquence on the meaning of colors in dreams and signs. He'd learnt nothing in the thirty minutes he'd endured this prattle, and yet his mind still burped up odd little questions, just like that one, regardless of his lack of interest in the class.

It's one of those bright winter days where everything is so white, it's almost painful. He can only see one tiny patch of the grounds from his seat, and it's empty; boring and blank.

Focusing briefly on the display at the front of the room, he sighed a little, sick to death of the droning on and on, endlessly about blue-green-orange-purple, love-hate-revenge-curiosity. Unable to stomach the view, Draco Malfoy eyed the window rather desperately, though whether it's because he wants to leap to his death to escape the awful fate of being stuck here or because he's looking for a distraction is anyone's guess.

The young Malfoy almost turns away, looking for a new something to be distracted by when he sees a flash of movement. Following the mouse-sized newcomers with his eyes, he watched that small group of students hurry through the snow. They were jostling each other as they ran-slipped-laughed, making fresh tracks through the empty canvas of snow as they scurried out of view again.

Almost disappointed that they hadn't done anything truly interesting, Draco is about to look away, when a single, tiny figure darts back into view. He/she/it grabs a… scarf, he thinks, off the ground, shaking it vigorously. He looks closer and notices the red; Weasley red- the color of poverty. He's just about to reach unobtrusively for his wand ( _there are any number of quiet, little jinxes he could fling its way_ ), when it drops to the ground.

He expects that it ( _it has to be the wee Weasley, the girl_ ) has fallen- really she's remarkably clumsy on the ground ( _not when she flies_ ), but she makes a snow angel instead. A single, perfect snow angel from which she levitates herself to keep pristine. He finds his gaze drawn back to it again and again.

* * *


	2. Oh Sweet Merlin, what IS that sound?

2003

 _What was that sound? What manner of creature or object or being could possibly make it?_ For about the millionth time, those questions ran through Draco's mind. The caterwauling below really was unconscionable and needed to stop.

At first, two months ago, he'd thought that the coincidence of their living assignment was delicious. He's a Malfoy after all- above all things Weasley by right of birth- so it was only natural he was assigned to live above one as well. In theory, it was hilarious.

In practice, it left much to be desired. At the top of that 'much-to-be-desired' list was quiet. Silence. The blessed absence of noise.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for a decent nights sleep, but it was never to be. And he was shite at casting muffling charms, just like he was shite at casting cooling charms. No matter how certain he was of the perfection of both his wand-work and his spell-work, somewhere between his execution and the result, something went pear-shaped, and he was left in an oddly humid flat hearing snatches of conversations no sane wizard would have wanted to overhear.

Four more months.

A little over four.

126 days until he could portkey home, to England, where life was civilized. Where it rained 300 days out of the year and one didn't need to know a cooling charm, because one lived in a drafty ( _OK, moldering_ ) manor and had house elves to take care of that sort of thing.

At least, he'd _had_ house elves- before the Mudblood had interfered and ruined everything. And though he hated to admit it, Granger had been right about it- slavery was slavery. Regardless of what else Draco Malfoy was and what other values he'd once held, he couldn't quite stomach that anymore, not since the war. It just irked him -immensely- because he really was absolute pants at household spells.

What was really unfortunate was that he had no money to speak of to go with that drafty manor, and that the taxes levied were crushing. It was also unfortunate that he couldn't stand to see it left like that- practically rotting and putrid. Hence his presence in this hellhole outside of Cairo ( _of all horrible places_ ), being forced to work ( _of all wretched things_ ).

A giggle floated past him and Draco snarled.

_Enough was enough._

He had no issues with his other neighbors, never heard a peep from either of the daffy bastards after 9pm. They might as well have turned to stone in the evenings for all the noise they made after dark.

Sitting at a small table, which had been pressed into service as a desk and clothes receptacle by lack of space and proper substitutes, he contemplated his current surroundings briefly. A shoe box was more spacious than what was laughably called his accommodations. There was a small room with a bed and that small table and a single chair, a walled off area for a "kitchen" and a broom closet that masqueraded as a bathroom. No, the interns weren't allowed to magically enhance their rooms, nor do anything that might make them feel more home-y. This was work. Not super-happy-fun-time.

Despite the miniscule size of his flat, it still took a bit to locate the quill and a piece of parchment suitable for a scathing note. Eventually, though, he located what was needed under his favorite trousers. They were wool and had seen zero use since his current assignment, which saddened him a bit as he looked rather smart in them.

Draco had tried before, twice actually, two perfectly polite requests to soundproof her own apartment, but he'd not been heeded. He brandished his quill.

_Ms. Weasley,_

_Contrary to popular belief, shrieking at an inanimate object like a fishwife will not make it a) go faster, b) heat up, c) work at all. You are, presumably, a witch. Use your bloody wand if something isn't functioning to your standards. In the mean time, would it be too much to ask for 6 hours during the night where you aren't shuffling around in your hovel downstairs, shouting at the top of your lungs like some mad woman?_

_-DM_

He felt much better as he tromped down the stairs to spello-tape the note to her door.

* * *

There was a pink envelope all but glued to his door when he returned the following evening. Draco chipped a nail trying to dislodge the buggering thing, and there were still shreds left, shreds of glittery pink parchment fluttering ( _mocking him_ ) on the scarred wood when he slammed the door shut. He had a pretty good idea who it was from.

Draco would not allow her to provoke him. No, he needed a shower and a soothing fire whiskey and perhaps he would open it. Then again, maybe he'd take up tap-dancing and spend the rest of the night practicing ever-so earnestly.

Chucking the letter, his robes and finally his sandy, dusty shoes onto the floor, he padded off to his bathroom. An hour of scrubbing and his scalp no longer felt gritty. Scourgify just didn't work as well on desert sand as it did for everything else. He pulled on a loose pair of shorts, forgoing something on top as he was as usual expecting no company and because he couldn't think of a reason to dress himself properly. Mother would have been horrified.

Laundry day was tomorrow, a dauntingly muggle activity he sincerely wished he could pay someone else to do, but couldn't as he was on a budget. Simple spells never got all of the miniscule grains of sand out of the seams, so there he was every other Thursday- using a magically enchanted muggle 'washing machine' in the basement that sounded like a wounded gytrash. It was possible all the wailing he attested to the wench below was simply the sound of all of his ancestors spinning repeatedly in their graves.

At least he didn't actually have to pick the clothes up, Draco thought sourly as he waved his wand and swirled the clothes into a bundle and that was then stuffed into a bag. The pink envelope fluttered in the wake, annoyingly sparkly, aggressively chipper as it came to rest at his feet. He gave a huge sigh, tempted to just incinerate the thing, but curiosity won out in the end. He'd always been too bloody curious for his own good.

_Git,_

_The fact that I am here at all, accepted into the same internship as you, should attest to my skill as a witch. If you'll care to recall, I was the one who broke the curse that stumped even you on my second day here._

_If you are incapable of casting a decent muffling charm, I am free on Friday after next for lessons. My tutoring rates in Hogwarts were two sickles an hour, but I think we can both agree my time is now much more valuable. I shall have to defer to your judgment in the matter, as I have never had to pay for companionship._

_-GW_

He sniffed. Then he grabbed for parchment and quill.

_Harpy,_

_And I do mean that in the literal sense of 'you are a harpy'; a terrible, bad-tempered, ravenous, shrewish creature._

_I would have solved that puzzle before you had I not been busy trying to divert an entire bloody river from flooding the valley_ _and killing us all_ _, but clearly- my priorities were skewed. I should have opened a tomb full of useless junk instead saving all of our lives._

_I'll also have you know that I cast a perfect muffling charm. It's your shrill voice that is unnatural. It cuts right through any barrier as if it were nothing. Tell me, do you make your own ears bleed too, or is it just everybody else that has to suffer?_

He stopped himself from including a list of friends and acquaintances that had never received any monetary compensation, but mostly because it was an awfully short list.

_In conclusion, allow me to enlighten you on a subject that seems to be a source of consternation for you. Merlin knows you yammer on and on about it often enough. If a gentleman, and I use the term in the loosest possible way having seen the riff-raff you consort with, doesn't get back to you within a few days of a rendezvous, it is generally a sign that he is not interested._

_Have as many all-night witch conferences you as want with your friends, consume however however many gallons of wine as you can, but that fact will remain. It only serves to keep me up._

_-DM_

He used the rest of a nearly full roll of spello-tape attaching it to her door. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that his note could hang on her door for the next two hundred and fifty years- if the adverts were to be believed.

* * *

Somehow, during the course of the six-month internship with Gringotts On-Site Archeological Preservation and Safety Division, Draco Malfoy had become accustomed to heat. Desert heat: a sort of searing, baking desiccation that scorched everything and anyone. It had been right handy at the end there, when he'd barely notice it at all, working long past what the new load of trainees were capable of doing, drinking so much water sweat and salt made his fingers slippery.

It was not, however, _right handy_ anymore. Back in blessed England, the sanctuary of civilization and bastion of comfort he'd dreamt of, he found that he was cold. Shivering, quaking, stutteringly numb with cold, if he had to be precise.

Draco was sitting at a desk, a proper desk, not a rickety side table covered in clothes. This space was full of writing implements and books and parchments, all the lovely _things_ he'd missed having available in Egypt. He should have been bloody ecstatic.

He knew without a doubt that he was going round the bend when he found himself wishing for the sun, heat, for that dreadful flat he could simply wear shorts in. That ghastly flat where he'd never once worried about hypothermia.

He recited his expenses which were being tallied dutifully by the Quick-Quotes-Quill, the reason why he was able to keep one hand tucked under his shirt, in his arm-pit where it was warm. It was his new favorite implement, almost as useful as his bloody wand at this point in keeping his fingers from freezing off.

Draco shifted inside the down duvet he'd swaddled himself with, trying to find a position that covered both his toes and the top of his head. There wasn't one. He'd accio his cloak, but it seemed pathetic somehow, as if he wasn't wizard enough to properly heat his own home. And he was- the fire just hadn't quite heated up the room yet.

When a tapping sounded at his window, he was torn between relief and anguish. A distraction from the horror of the paperwork was certainly welcome, but the thought of disentangling himself from the warm cocoon of his blanket was nearly too much to bear.

Tap. Taptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap.

The window squealed as he opened it, and he added it to the mental list of repairs that he needed to attend to while he was home. He'd only opened a few rooms in this one wing, but the list was already… he paused to think of a word that wouldn't fill him with despair- _extensive_. Surely that word was neutral and innocuous sounding enough not to send him spiraling into despondency.

Even after four years of peace, the devastation that had been done to his home was _extensive_ enough to render it largely uninhabitable in the winter months. Still, he did what he could when he wasn't working, hoping that someday his efforts would have enough of a cumulative effect that his home would be _home_ again. Livable and welcoming, if not the spectacular ice palace of his memories.

The owl was unfamiliar, a sodden and grumpy lump of barely suppressed malice as it hopped around shaking off snow and water droplets, apparently delighting in getting as much of it on him as possible. It finally stilled long enough to sullenly extend a leg for Draco to retrieve the message attached there. The owl pecked his hand viciously, demanding an owl treat before making eyes at the window. Another two squeals of the window and the owl was free and the manor closed off from the world once again. He smirked a little, recognizing the sparkly, pink parchment even before he'd unrolled the missive.

_Ferret,_

_My father apparently spent the last six months of his retirement in the shed, experimenting with some sort of enchanted still. You must be as cold as I am, so I'm including the fruits of his labors._

_-G_

_PS. Only a tea-drinking mummy's boy would dare cut this gift of ambrosia with pumpkin juice. Drink it straight. You know, like a proper wizard would, and not a ponce._

And indeed, there was an itty, bitty ceramic jug spello-taped to the parchment. The wench owed him for the elderberry wine his mother had sent, which he had so generously shared with her. They'd been friendlier with each other up till that point ( _their little notes having somehow evolved into snarky little treats each enjoyed_ ), but that night, between his mothers wine and her mothers brownies, it seemed as if something about that sharing had actually made them friends.

For Draco, it was still a bit strange to have a female friend, not to mention a Weasley as a friend, so he'd wondered occasionally if they'd actually still be friends when back on their home turf. After a moment he decided that it was nice to see that they apparently were.

He returned the jug to original size and poured a couple of fingers of the clear liquid in a glass. When the sides steamed up a bit, he was naturally hesitant to actually put whatever it was in his mouth, so he gave a quick sniff. Huge mistake, he realized after his sinuses screamed and his eyes teared up. Then he realized that he was, if nothing else, _warm_ again.

When Draco was again able to see, he contemplated the glass he still held and the paperwork mounded on his desk. He took the shot.

_She-Weasel,_

_Oh yes. I am most definitely_ _ going there _ _, as you would say._

_Firstly, there is nothing wrong with tea. Tea is practically the international beverage of hospitality._

_Secondly, don't you know you have to declare dangerous compounds to the Ministries Owlery Services before you send them? I should have you fined and your owl revoked for sending your little gift. I'm not entirely convinced you weren't trying to poison me. If so, after all we've been through I think I'm a bit disappointed I didn't rate a better effort._

_I have four days before the next assignment, by the way. Are you up for a trot through Hogsmeade before I'm off? I need a few things before I leave, and I know how much you adore shopping. OK, not funny, but I can offer a relatively decent meal with stellar company after the expedition. And there's always the gallon of cleaning solvent you sent over._

_-DM_

He was rather gratified that her reply came back with his owl. It was just too bad that she was leaving for Thailand in the morning.

* * *


	3. Touchy, touchy

2013

 _How had he ended up with Ginny Weasley's brother's sofa in his parlor?_ Draco Malfoy found himself wondering this very bizarre question for about the eighteenth time.

Well, to answer that query would be to review his entire life with rather more scrutiny than he was capable of at the moment. There were muscles screaming in agony somewhere in the vicinity of his groin, and he smelled of something slightly rancid. Though he now made quite a bit at artifact hunting, the physicality needed to get out alive was making him reconsider his rates. If he was going to continue to smell like something dead on regular intervals, he should at least get a decent raise out of the deal.

Malfoy had just come home from a rather long assignment in Kiev, and there it ( _the sofa_ ) was. He'd been told that it would be there, but somehow he hadn't expected _it_. He'd been fairly clear that a Malfoy didn't want or need a random Weasley brother's castoff sofa, but his protests had gone on typically deaf ears.

Weasley had insisted they needed something one could stretch out on without fear, something squishy and comfortable- and Bill's sofa was all of those things along with being free. Draco had scoffed, more than willing to shell out the Galleons needed for new _whatever_ , but she'd just talked over him till his head ached. His silent nod hadn't been that he'd acquiesced to her, it had been self-preservation. _Besides_ , he'd thought, _how bad could it be?_

The sofa was Awful ( _yes, with a capital A_ ), though what it truly was, was vast- at least three times the size of the previous settee. He toed the paisley covered side dubiously, as if expecting it to rear up and devour him.

It didn't, of course, but that didn't mean Draco would turn his back on it. Oh, no. He was far too clever for that. He reached behind him, feeling for the ceramic jug that rested on the book shelf- the jug that somehow in ten years had never gotten empty no matter how many times he poured a dram. He was entirely sure that he had no desire at all to learn how Arthur Weasley had managed that.

Draco wasn't certain whether he was reaching for the jug as a self-defense mechanism ( _would it set the Manor on fire if he simply burnt that thing where it was?_ ) or if he just wanted the drink.

"Oi, Git," he heard from behind him.

He turned and got a face full of Lime Green something knitted. It wouldn't be a jumper- he knew that- but Molly Weasley had over the years knitted him practically everything else. There had been hats, mittens, scarves and once, memorably, some unholy combination there-of ( _the Mi-Sc-at, as it came to be known, still haunted his nightmares_ ). And blankets. Loads and loads of blankets. All done in eye-searing colors he had no intention of actually wearing or using, but occasionally had to in order to be polite.

"Mum sends her regards," Ginny continued as he struggled to free himself. "She sent over a throw to cover Bill's sofa. She thought you'd be pleased with the green."

Draco finally managed to find a corner and pulled the blanket from his face.

"So good to see you, Harpy. I see you've managed the wrangle that thing into place," he said with a nod to monstrosity occupying his living room, raising an eyebrow when he noticed a TV.

Mother would have kittens when she came back from what she called 'her spiritual retreat' in France and saw the enchanted muggle device Hermoine Granger had introduced to wizard kind installed in the downstairs parlor. Though Mother didn't live in the Manor any longer, she was still incredibly picky about its upkeep and contents, and a TV ( _not to mention that sofa_ ) was decidedly low-class.

He'd surely hear about the desecration of the Manor for weeks when she finally returned from the semi-annual pilgrimage to Paris Fashion Week. Draco knew how hard it was for his Mother now that she couldn't afford to buy in bulk from the premier houses, but he didn't want to deal with her histrionics. He'd have to put her off somehow. Perhaps he'd offer to pay to extend her stay until after he was safely away on his next trip. Generally simply being in the City of Light soothed her and it had the added bonus of keeping her safely out of his hair.

Her attitude occasionally drove Draco more than a bit batty considering what he'd had to work with when he'd started the renovations and that he'd been incredibly respectful of the rest of the Manor. Draco had wanted, no, he'd needed a room, space that was all his own- and not just his bedroom. And that turned out to be the downstairs parlor.

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, pointedly ignoring that look, knowing he was thinking of his Mothers reaction to the latest additions. "I made some progress in the North Wing, but you'll need to have a specialist come take a look at that piano in the music room."

He made a noncommittal noise as he sorted through the stacks of mail he'd received while out of the country. The piano was so far down on his list of priorities, that he didn't even bother actually putting it on the list. He hadn't played the bloody thing in more than a decade at least, though he was the first to admit he'd looked dashingly broody at the keys. Witches had always been suckers for a wizard who could play an instrument. Eh, maybe he'd think about fixing the piano sooner rather than later after all.

Draco had been housemates with Ginny of sorts for about three years, but they spent more time together at work on a dig somewhere uncivilized than they did at home. In fact, England seemed to be the one place they rarely saw one another. Which was likely why this arrangement worked so well for them- they hardly had the chance to get underfoot and annoy each other ( _hex each other to pieces, more like_ ).

Draco reflected that it was actually rather nice to see her again, as she slung an arm around him. Really though, he'd never get used to her touching him. Weasley's nose wrinkled as she caught his aroma, but she still ruffled his hair a bit and gave his shoulders a squeeze. Her whole family was just the same; always touching, hugging, kissing.

In large groups it tended to be rather frightening- what with the youngsters coming out of nowhere to drape themselves on him; random, grubby little Weasley hands touching him and messing with his hair. Her mother and father held hands. In front of company, even. After his parent's chilly relationship, Draco was ill-equipped to deal with that sort of casual affection.

He shrugged out of her embrace, slinging his stinky cloak in the pile on the chair in the corner. It was with the greatest hesitation Draco allowed Ginny to pull him over to the sofa, but once he was actually seated ( _absorbed more like_ ) he was forced to admit it was far more comfortable than slightly spindly, definitely creaky number that had previously been in the space.

Getting back up, he said "It's still an eyesore. Can it be painted? Something unobtrusive? Translucent, maybe?"

He chuckled as she flung a fuzzy pillow at his head, ducking as he hurried out of the room.

Weasley had taken it upon herself to fix up the biggest bathroom on the second floor the first month she'd lived there, an act that had initially enraged him. He'd gotten over it when he'd taken his first shower post-renovation. She'd done something heavenly with about a dozen shower heads and it marked his decision to just leave her to her own devices when she decided to help out around the house. Weasley had always had a better hand at household spells than he.

It was two hours later Draco finally managed to stop his nearly compulsive grooming. He'd exfoliated, he'd buffed and moisturized. He felt like a new man, relaxed and clean and smelling very nice indeed. Then it was time to pull on his secret shame- the fleece tracksuit bottoms, size XXXL. Enormous and unflattering, but horribly comfortable.

They'd been a gift from Ginny, after Draco had heaped scorn upon her for wearing such unflattering clothing voluntarily in public. She'd hotly declared that the parlor was hardly public and that she shouldn't be faulted for wanting to be comfortable in her own home.

She'd been living at the Manor for almost a year at that point, but hearing a Weasley call it home… Unnatural. But strangely, nice. The tracksuit bottoms had been wrapped in newspaper and tied with a jaunty ribbon and left in front of his bedroom door the next morning. The note attached had read:

_Dearest Git,_

_It is almost your birthday, which again, I shall certainly miss. I'm off to Rio for three weeks, and have no doubt you will be on your way to your next destination by the time I get back. I've included these so you will know not to mock me when you inevitably catch me wearing similar in the future._

_Wear them in good health, etc._

_-G_

_PS. There is absolutely nothing you can do about the nappy-arse. Don't worry, they're not meant to be flattering. One only wears them around the house, no matter how much one longs to just nip out to the store for fags without changing._

She'd been gone, so Draco hadn't felt as stupid putting them on the first time and walking around the house in them. His silk pajamas were infinitely more stylish, but the warmth and comfort provided by tracksuit bottoms was superior. Now, well now he had half a dozen pairs, but his favorites were still those worn black fleece ones she'd given him.

Padding back downstairs to the parlor he'd turned into the living room, he noted the changes that occurred since his last trip home. The floor was shinier, the wood healthier looking somehow and the air smelled fresh and faintly of lemon. Weasley had been busy, it seemed, but then she didn't take the extended assignments he did. She had been home more than he had.

Ginny was pouring drinks when he walked back in the parlor, enraptured by the flickering images on the screen of the TV.

"Feel better?" she said before drinking her shot. Her eyes watered a bit, and she coughed, but then she looked at him. A wide smile stretched across her face.

An auburn brow lifted in a perfect arch, and her vowels became rounder, enunciation crisper, "Those bottoms are atrocious. Horrendous, in fact. You do know that, right?"

He almost snorted at her hideous imitation of him, but Malfoy's didn't snort. Instead he shoved her aside to claim a spot on the sofa.

"That's utterly preposterous and you know it. I make everything look good."

"You certainly smell better," she murmured, and slung her feet across his lap, stretching across the length of the sofa.

It was nice. Almost familiar, but not quite. For the first time in weeks he was able to relax, and it wasn't long before the combination of being clean and warm and comfortable made his eyes heavy.

When Draco woke up, hours later in the dark, the TV was off, and he was snuggled under a blanket. It was snowing outside, and the house had that peculiar silence it sometimes got in the deepest of winter, the one that made it seem like the world outside was nothing but cotton floss and mist. He was warm and something just as warm was curled around him, a familiar weight and smell all over him, making soft sounds. Content, he closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

The morning was equally quiet, and Draco noted with some surprise that his back felt pretty good for having slept on a sofa. There was a small possibility that Weasley had been right about the sofa, but he'd never go so far as to admit it to her. He walked into the bathroom without knocking assuming it would be as empty as it was quiet, that Ginny would still be asleep as she likely would be until noon cracked.

Weasley was not asleep and the bathroom was not empty. She was in the bath, nose deep in bubbles, all that hair of hers piled on top of her head, an ankle hanging off one side and her knee poking out the other side. Draco had an instant to wonder what she'd done with her hands when her left eye cracked open and she startled a bit then blushed deeply. An unfamiliar heat stole up the back of his neck and the tops of his ears, and he quickly turned his back. She hadn't been… No, she couldn't have been.

By some miracle, they'd avoided seeing each other naked thus far.

They had never caught the other in any compromising positions, either, which was likely why that particular moment was so blasted awkward. He hadn't any experience in this arena and it made him very uncomfortable.

He didn't even think of her as a woman anymore, not really. Ginny was Weasley; she was sexless- er- genderless in his eyes. Wholly unique and singular, his _friend_ now, his best friend. He pivoted quickly, prepared to evacuate the area. Weasley was silent, uncharacteristically so for her.

Draco knew he had turned an unflattering shade of red, but he couldn't help it. _It was just Weasley_ , he tried telling himself, nothing special, just Weasley. Just Ginny. Naked. Who had possibly just had her fingers in… He fled.

He couldn't very well hide for long, though he wanted to. For one thing, it was _his_ ancestral home from which he'd run ( _practically screaming like a girl_ ), for another well- perhaps he'd been a bit silly. It wasn't even as if Draco had really _seen_ anything. Foam, mostly.

Smirking, he remembered that he'd seen a bit more than that that one time, when he'd floo'd her at her old place and seen her changing into her formal robes for some Gringotts function or another. Draco had known Weasley was small, but the sight of her bent over in just her little knickers, so delicate and with that tiny waist…

Actually, that didn't help at all.

Draco found himself at the muggle pub in the village closest to the Manor ( _of all horrid places_ ) eating chips and gravy and drinking lager ( _of all wretched combinations_ ). He was likely to vomit sometime in the near future, and damnit, he wanted to be home for it, or if not home then at least _outside_. Throwing something that still reminded him of some sort of play money on the bar he headed for the quiet lane that would, eventually, spill out to the countryside.

He had hopes that the squelchy feeling in his gut would subside by that point, leaving him free to Apparate home, but if it didn't… Ah well, it wasn't like it would hurt him to walk an extra four miles.

 _Actually, yes, it would_.

Draco wasn't kitted out for fucking hiking, and the reason he'd come in here ( _other than the booze, of course_ ) had been that his feet hurt. So yes, bugger it all, it would absolutely definitely hurt him- his feet would be bloody stumps come morning.

Luckily, he had sobered up just enough to make it home once he'd finally made it to the crossroads in the middle of nowhere in the country-side, too far from anything for some curious muggle to catch him doing magic.

Unluckily, he wasn't quite sober enough to avoid chucking up all over the painstakingly restored Persian rug his Mum ( _Mother, for Merlin's sake! She hated being called something so common as Mum_ ) had always loved. Draco knew he'd probably care in the morning, but right then all he could think was how soft and near the hideous sofa was.

He woke up quite close to his puddle of vomit in the morning, having never actually made it to the monstrous sofa. Weasley– fully clothed, thankfully- stared at him from the doorway, looking for all the world as if she couldn't quite decide which emotion to express. There was anger, a bit of laughter, annoyance, dismay, disgust, pity all rolled into one continuously shifting facial expression. He could have found it comical had it not been for the dust bunny that had died and decayed in his mouth overnight.

"Oh, Malfoy" she finally sighed, having settled on an expression somewhere between disappointment and bemusement, "All this just because you saw my ankle? It almost makes me wonder what the sight of my bare breasts might inspire."

Weasley turned and walked away; sounding very much like Mother when she called _do please clean up your vomit_ over her shoulder. Bloody hell. His wand-work was sloppy, but he managed a Scourgify before the last of his energy deserted him. He lowered his face back down to the plush silk fibers and released his tenuous hold on consciousness.

When Draco woke up there was a hangover potion conveniently within reach, and he blessed the mad impulse he'd had all those years ago when he'd invited a member of the Weasley family to live the Malfoy Manor. He was feeling much better when he barreled into the bathroom in search of his toothbrush. His gaze found the tub and for just an instant he thought about catching her in it yesterday. Naked. ( _Possibly fingering herself_.)

But it was just an instant. And he didn't think any such thoughts again for the rest of the day.

He really didn't think he'd ever get used to her touching him.


	4. Now, a Word from Ginny (a short intermission)

_Dearest Ferret,_

_I've started to wonder if you're avoiding me, but that can't be so, can it? If nothing else, we've always been honest to each other. Even - one might say - brutally so, at times. I've been home six times since February, Malfoy, and I've seen neither hide nor hair of you. I shudder to write this, but did I do something? Did I upset you somehow?_

_The piano is fixed. I know you used to play, you told me after I found that box of photos in the North Wing. I think I'd like to hear it sometime, if you ever come home._

_I guess what I'm trying to say is that I miss you. I want you to come home. I want you._

She flung the ninth parchment she'd tried to write in the fireplace to burn. A cigarette smoldered forgotten in an ashtray beside her, even though she knows he hates smoking in the house. It wasn't like he was there to berate her, anyway.

The letters start out fine, she thinks, but somewhere along the second line or so she gets tripped up. If there is one thing Ginny fears more than a possessed diary, it is to be seen as _needy_ , and there seems to be something undeniably desperate about asking her co-worker or landlord or whatever he was to come home because she misses him.

But then, he'd always been more to her than her fellow Hogwarts alum or her flat-mate or even just her friend. There had always been something underlying their relationship, something she used to define as hate or dislike or her utter disregard for him, but none of those things were right anymore, either.

It was entirely likely that something had changed when she'd fallen asleep on him. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he had seen her getting herself off and _that_ changed things, though she didn't know why that should be so. From what she knew of her brothers, men were practically born with a death grip on their willies. Why should it be so different for her? It wasn't as if he could have possibly seen anything.

Certain if she could just put the right words down on parchment that her feelings would suddenly be made clear, she tried to do just that.

In the end she sent:

_Draco,_

_I'm thinking of tearing out the mosaic flooring in that bathroom on the third floor of the East Wing. What do you think? I'll be in Beijing next week- I know you're somewhere in China too, so maybe we could meet for a meal or something to discuss things._

_-G_

_PS. If I don't hear from you in a week, I'll ask your darling Mother to give you her opinion about the matter. Don't think I won't just because she scares the living daylights out of me._

Remembering Draco's many lectures about that room's supposedly marvelous tile work ( _though in her opinion the whole room was grotty and needed to be made new again_ ), she knew he'd respond at very least.

It was strange, this indefinable ache in her chest- it had been so long since she'd heard his snark, his laugh, that sniff he made when he thought something was preposterous, not to mention the way he would say _preposterous_ in that posh, snooty tone of his, as if his nose was a mile in the air.

And she, Ginny Weasley, was bloody insane.


	5. Brownies and Elderberry Wine

2003

_Git,_

_Mum sent me brownies. Homemade._

_-G_

_PS. I'll finish them all and my arse will hate me if I do. Maybe you could come down here and help me eat them?_

Well, Draco had certainly received more tasteful invitations to spend time with someone, but if he was honest, not for a long time. Naturally, the standard questions came up:

_-Is she barmy?_

_-Is she planning something painful, incriminating and/or embarrassing?_

_-What possible advantage would he gain from this endeavor?_

Then again, how harmful could brownies be? Essentially chocolate cake that had fallen flat, it was still chocolate, and he'd never been able to resist that particular siren call. Besides, it had been a long day and pudding had, yet again, been disappointing. Egypt supposedly had a rich and varied epicurean culture, but Draco wouldn't have guessed it based on the food the interns had been served. Still, regardless of the disgraceful lack of quality sweets available, he should stay strong and rebuff these unnatural urges to voluntarily spend time with the Harpy.

Another evening spent half-dressed and alone loomed. Something crashed below and he winced.

Perhaps if he brought something along, it wouldn't be so awkwardly like he was begging for sweets. It also meant that she wouldn't have one over on him if he brought something better, more expensive. ( _At this he nearly chortled, by that standard he could bring her practically anything in his trunk. He had a brief moment where he imagined giving her a pair f his soiled underwear, suppressing the giggle that bubbled up at the image._ )

Mother had spent the last few years with her French relatives, and despite the shambles their finances were in, had sent Draco some provisions to survive on in the harsh climate. He'd finished off the chocolates in a day ( _regrettably_ ), but he'd saved the bottle of elderberry wine in his trunk for months. Did he really want to waste it sharing it with someone? And with _Weasley_ of all people?

In the end the need for a sugary, chocolaty treat won out.

Knocking on Weasley's door, he smirked at the remnants of spello-tape that still clung tenaciously to the scarred wood. She opened the door on a laugh, a smile stretching from ear to ear, until she saw him.

"Oh," she said. "You came. Ha. I honestly didn't think you had it in you, Malfoy."

Weasley waved him into her flat with a smirk and he wondered briefly if he had made a mistake. Still, with the promise of chocolate he would endure all manner of hippogriff manure. He gripped the bottle of wine tighter as he entered the lair of the enemy.

Music played in the background, something unfamiliar, but with a decent beat. He'd never had time to make himself familiar with modern, popular music, but it wasn't the shite he'd heard on Parkinson's wireless all those years ago at Hogwarts.

It surprised him just a bit that her flat resembled his- there were the same piles of clothes and the same horrid furnishings. She, however, apparently could cast a decent cooling charm, and he tamped down the irrational spurt of jealousy.

"Do make yourself comfortable, I suppose," she smiled fully at him, a stunning display of teeth and gums.

Draco spotted a pan of dark brown, crackly looking goodness on the table in front of her bed. His mouth watered, he knew there was no way he'd leave without at least appropriating some of that. Sitting down on the edge of her bed was without a doubt one of the more bizarre moments of his life. That her bed was just as lumpy and uncomfortable as his was a fact that made him inordinately happy.

"So, er, brownies," Draco said, hopefully.

"Yes, brownies," she said, looking pointedly at the bottle he still held in his hand.

He chuckled nervously, something he could not recollect ever having occurred previously. The blond held the bottle out, "Yes. I brought some wine. I thought it was the only proper thing to do. Should I transfigure glasses?"

She looked at the bottle, eyes widening as she apparently recognized the label, "Oh, that's rather decent of you." The surprise in her voice was what was expected, but it was still a bit distressing. "Er, no, I think I've got some cups in the kitchen."

That annoying giggle scraped up his brain-stem and suddenly the ridiculousness of the entire situation hit him. Just like that he wasn't as innately nervous anymore, he relaxed like he used to in social situations before all the, _ah_ , troubles.

"Merlin, Weasley, I thought I must've been exaggerating that giggle of yours, but it's just as awful in person. And, no, one doesn't drink this vintage of elderberry wine from cups. Perhaps I should leave, swap it out for something you're more familiar with. You're used to the wines that come in a box, yes?"

"That's just mean, Malfoy, and you know it. I swear I'll not share a single bit of this perfect confection if you don't open that wine and pour us both a glass right this instant."

The teasing tone of Weasley's voice was completely at odds with her words, and for an instant he was unsure what was expected of him.

So Draco did what came naturally to him, and transfigured two of her candle holders into crystal glasses and vanished the cork with a flourish of his wand. After opening the wine, he lamented, albeit briefly, that it wouldn't have proper time to breathe and poured the drinks deftly.

Honey-drop eyes followed the stream of pale wine avidly and she greedily accepted the glass when he passed it over. He sniffed the wines bouquet delicately, and looked up at her.

"You're not supposed to-" but he stopped himself from going further.

She was a Weasley, after all, and probably had no idea that one didn't chug France's finest elderberry wine in one go. Her eyes twinkled at him and she had a Cheshire cat smile as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Seeing his outraged expression, her laugh filled the tiny flat.

"That was priceless, Malfoy, absolutely priceless. Yes, I am aware I just broke about a thousand rules of polite society by downing that glass of what was no doubt very expensive wine, but the look on your face when I wiped my face…" she broke off into another wave of helpless laughter. "Worth it."

He raised an eyebrow, "Just when I think you could not possibly be less couth, you prove me wrong. Good to know you're always reaching for the stars, Weasley."

"Oh-ho! Someone thinks he's funny," Ginny said as she sliced the brownies into squares and performed a quick warming charm.

"No, I think I'm brilliant and witty, but funny? Not so much. Now are you going to share those, or is your plan to just laugh and be inhospitable?"

"Oh, very well, here," she said ungraciously shoving the now warm tray at him.

He looked askance at her as he accepted the tray.

"Er, plates and silverware, Weasley? Or are you completely uncivilized?"

"Plates and silverware? Why would you need a plate and what would you do with silverware?" she looked sincerely perplexed by this. "Just pick one up and shove it into your mouth," she said, miming picking one up and putting it in her mouth before closing her eyes and rubbing her stomach with an exaggerated expression of bliss.

He smirked, "Is that a life philosophy or does it just apply to brownies?"

"Weak, Malfoy, weak. Seriously, though? You need all that just to eat a brownie?"

"Ye-es." He drew the word out. "And a serviette, if that wouldn't be too much of a burden?"

With a sigh she got back up and he swore he heard her mumbling something about 'demanding, poncy buggers' as she went to the miniscule kitchen, but he ignored it ( _the brownies_ _did_ _smell really good)_. There was some banging around in cupboards and drawers and Draco realized that he was actually lucky his flat was as quiet as it was. All of her eating utensils were languishing in her sink, and she would prefer to be buggered silly before she actually cleaned anything for Malfoy, so she shrugged, "You'll have to eat with your fingers."

Sitting back down, she handed over a chipped saucer and a dishtowel that had seen better days. He could do glasses easily enough ( _witches were impressed by that sort of thing he'd noticed rather early on in his life_ ), but he'd never quite mastered transfiguring ceramics or cheap fabrics. He glared at the crazed porcelain and dingy cotton a bit, before he turned his attention on her.

Ignoring that look he gave her, Ginny picked up one of the chocolate treats and gleefully tore off a small corner. She popped it into her mouth and looked at him in encouragingly. Draco hesitantly reached out and took one of the brownies. With a delicate nibble, he had his first taste of Molly Weasley's baking.

Grey eyes closed involuntarily and he moaned briefly. This was not chocolate cake that had failed to properly rise; this was pure chocolate heaven, heavy and dense and lovely. Then he ripped the rest of that brownie apart like he was a starving animal.

"Holy Salazar, Weasley," he finally managed to get out when there was nothing left but a few crumbs he was practically trying to lick from his palms, "what on earth does your mother put in these?"

She gave another giggle and this time, he hadn't the slightest urge to cover his ears. That was progress, if nothing else.

"She says its love, but I'm unconvinced. After all, the woman did birth Fred and George, and all of that had to have come from somewhere," her smile dimmed for a second, and he had the most absurd urge to say something, to do something comforting.

"You know, I never thought to ask what you are doing here," he said instead. Her eyes narrowed at him briefly, and he hastily added "I mean, I'm not disparaging your skills. You're not," he paused to consider, "terrible at curse-breaking."

"High words of praise coming from you."

"Well, _yes_ , but what I meant was, why do this? It's not a particularly easy or glamorous internship. It's far from home. It's hot as Merlin's balls on summer solstice. Most people end up failing or leaving early, you get crap for pay and even worse accommodations," a wave of his hand indicated their surroundings.

Ginny looked at him intently as she chewed, "I suppose I wanted a change from England."

"That's quite possibly the worst excuse I've heard. Come on, Harpy," he couldn't quite put his finger on why he wanted to know at all, but he put it down to his damned curiosity.

Her brow wrinkled a bit, and she shrugged, "I always liked curse-breaking. My brother, Bill, does it for a living, you know. And I like Egypt, I've been before and I've always wanted to come back. Then I heard about this program, and-," she sighed. Deeply. "Haven't you ever just wanted to _go_? Somewhere, _any_ where different? _Be_ something different?"

"Yes, actually. I mean, I'm here, aren't I? It's not quite what I was expecting, but-,"

Something about the turn their conversation had taken was making him the slightest bit uncomfortable. Eating seemed as good an activity as any to interrupt whatever it was they were doing, so he leaned over and snagged another brownie. It was entirely unseemly to eat them like he was ( _he suspected that Mother would rather have her nails pulled out slowly than eat anything with her fingers_ ), but it certainly facilitated getting the brownie into his mouth faster.

Weasley took the opportunity to look anywhere but him, as if embarrassed about something she'd revealed. The silence between them stretched on uneasily.

"So… I had no idea that you'd been in Egypt before."

"Is that some sort of crack about my families finances?"

"Er, no actually. Just trying to make conversation. It's called being polite. You should try it sometime."

She had the grace to flush a little, "Okaaay, before the war got, well you know, we all came down here and… It's so different here. I loved it. I loved the food and the smells and the endless, shifting sands. The blue of the sky,-" Ginny shrugged a little. "My whole life felt like it had been planned for this other person after a while, and I knew if I didn't do something, I'd be stuck. So, here I am."

It was curious that he should sympathize so sharply with her explanation. She might have echoed something he'd said about his own life.

"Malfoy, please don't make me play Oliver Twist here."

Draco had no idea what she was babbling on about, "Who?"

She smirked, "I know something the great bouncing ferret doesn't? Give me a second to savor the moment."

He said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and took another brownie.

"Fine, Oliver Twist is the titular character in a book by Charles Dickens. He's an orphan famous for saying 'Please, sir, I want some more'," Ginny said as she shook her wine glass at him.

"Never heard of it," Draco said shortly as he picked up the bottle.

"But we had to read it for muggle studies. I wrote 25 inches of parchment about that book. Didn't your class have to as well?" she was clearly perturbed by this. _It's almost cute_ , he thought as he filled her glass.

"I never actually _did_ any of the work for muggle studies."

"Oh? And how did you manage that?"

He couldn't quite manage not to look smug, "I was quite wealthy."

"Cheater!" she sounded incensed.

"Slytherin," he corrected, "and it was bollocks that I had to take that class in the first place, so don't think you can give me some Gryff nonsense about honor or what-not."

She pouted a bit about this while sipping her wine.

"So, why're you here? It's a little, I mean- you. Here. It's not exactly what I think _anybody_ expected out of Draco Malfoy. It's not meant to be offensive," she hurried to add.

Frankly, Draco was used to it, and at least she'd given him chocolate first. Heavenly, mouthwatering, deep and dark chocolate. That tray beckoned him silently.

"I'm not offended. At least," he grinned as he took another one of her mothers brownies ( _Merlin, he certainly understood her concerns about her arse_ ), "no more than usual in your company."

Ginny reached over and punched him in the arm.

"Ow. You're quite violent, aren't you?"

She nodded with a serious expression on her face, "Most definitely. It's what makes me good at this job, you know. Quick on my feet and not afraid to hit back," she said, her accent thickening the more she drank.

"You know… You're not all bad, Weasley."

Ginny laughed.

He found himself smiling back at her.


	6. It's (Not) a Date?

**WARNING: Thar' be smut ahead. If you don't like genetalia or sexy-times, please go elsewhere now. I'll let you know when it's safe to look again.**

2013

 _Has he gone mad? Mental? Soft-in-the-head?_ Draco wonders this for, well, not the first time, and certainly not the last, as he fussed with his hair.

It was only Weasley for Merlin's sake, and though he likes to be well put-together, the indecision was getting ridiculous. All he had to do was pick a shirt. It wasn't like he didn't look fantastic in _all_ of his shirts, but he just wanted the perfect one.

It wasn't even as if it were a date. ( _It wasn't- was it?_ )

She'd called it a meal. She'd called him Draco.

Weasley _never_ called him Draco; it was Malfoy or Git- occasionally Ponce and once in a while Sod or Tosser- Ferret when she was feeling particularly saucy. He thought he'd learnt to decipher her moods based on what she called him, but… Surely, it was nothing to be alarmed about.

No, not a date then, it was simply housemates catching up far from home and hearth. It was just them being on the same continent for the first time in months ( _which was a total coincidence- he'd done nothing even resembling avoidance_ ) and talking about flooring.

Draco wasn't picking her up, he wasn't paying ( _they usually split the bill_ ) and they wouldn't leave together. So there was no way for it to be a date, he decided again as he finally settled on the grey shirt ( _something she insisted on buying for him on that trip to Australia years ago, because she said it matched his eyes_ ) and the dark denims.

He'd thought them too tight in the store a year ago, but Ginny had said they did fabulous things to his bum, so there he was. Wearing too-tight denims he'd never put on after their purchase, not once in an entire year, hoping that he didn't look like a fop. Really, it was entirely unlike him to be so neurotic ( _and, blast it, he looked bloody fabulous in damn near anything_ ), so for the merest moment he considered cancelling.

It was heartening to see that Weasley waited for him, and that she was looking maybe a bit nervous in her little sun dress, as well. Draco kept reminding himself of that fact as he sat across from her, outside a little café on a hot sidewalk overlooking a harbor somewhere in China. _She was just a little nervous as well_. It helped relax him since he was a tad disconcerted that she hadn't pulled him into an embrace or even messed with his hair when he'd shown up. That was undoubtedly for the best, though. Merlin only knew where her hands had been.

The sunset washed her in gold and rose, playing to her complexion perfectly. It struck him that she may have learnt something from him about the importance of good lighting, since he had never seen her look lovelier. Draco allowed himself the luxury of staring, and found that he'd neglected to really pay any attention to what she was saying. It was only when he found himself accidentally agreeing that the Holyhead Harpies had an excellent chance at the cup this year that he realized his folly.

Weasley had a wonderful laugh.

* * *

_Still not a date_ , he thought as he pulled on her hand, closing the distance between them so he could Side-Along her back to his flat.

After she paid for their meal ( _a not entirely unusual occurrence, though he still wasn't really used to it_ ), Weasley had claimed to have had a bit too much wine with dinner. She'd cited the risk of splinching herself while Apparating back to an unfamiliar place in her condition and had asked to come back to his place. Draco thought it peculiar- she'd only had a few glasses, but in the end he'd shrugged and complied.

Back in England they shared a home ( _a huge bloody manor they could lose each other in_ ), so it wasn't like it was a big deal. Ginny would take the sofa in the living room and sleep it off, probably to be gone before he got up in the morning.

Draco let go of her hand to wave vaguely at the sofa, offering to get her a drink. When she requested tea, he felt curiously deflated. In the kitchen, with his back to the living room, he heard Ginny open a door behind him and figured she was using the loo.

Carrying a tray with the usual tea accoutrements he was surprised to see her coming out of his bedroom instead, wearing his old _Slytherin: Because Greatness Matters!_ shirt. The shirt was at least twenty years old and had originally been a gag-gift from Parkinson back in their third year. It was now practically threadbare, but it was the softest thing he owned. On Ginny it should have been quite chaste, brushing the tops of her knees as it did and the sleeves trailing to her fingertips. All he could seem to think of, however, were questions about what she was- or wasn't- wearing under it.

"Do make yourself at home, please, Weasley. What's mine is yours and all that," he said mildly.

She flushed becomingly and sat on the sofa. Draco placed the tray on the table in front of her, and poured the tea, adding cream and sugar to her taste automatically. Ginny looked absurdly young as she accepted the cup from him, her makeup already gone and her hair loose. He watched silently as she stretched across the sofa, settling her shins over his thighs and wiggling her bare toes a bit when she was satisfied with her position.

The weight of her was a solid reminder against his legs. A Gryffindor in Slytherin colors; lounging as if it was her right to, as if she belonged in his temporary flat, in his clothes, on his sofa, on him.

Ginny's hair gleamed with a riot of color ( _the color of poverty and lust and winter and heat and snow angels_ ) and he was caught in it. He was completely stuck in place as she smiled at him, talked at him, laughed and poked and prodded.

Draco Malfoy had never been comfortable with her casual touches, with the tactile aspects of being someone in her affections. Ginny Weasley had apparently always known this, even without being told, and he suspected that she kept at it just to keep him off balance.

He'd certainly never felt more off-center than he does right then and there, sitting with her in a temporary flat somewhere in China after their non-date.

His loss of equilibrium could explain why he tilts closer to her ( _lips_ ), but not why his heart was racing fit to burst from his chest. It felt sort of like that one time in that temple in Peru when they'd had to run through a tunnel with a huge bloody granite ball rolling after them, chasing them to their near-certain death, unable to do much more than scream in terror. After that little escapade they'd both gotten so drunk on Pisco they'd had to stumble back to their tents braced together for balance.

It didn't explain why she was leaning towards him, too. Or why her nipples were hard little points under his pilfered shirt. And how had her hand snuck across the back of the sofa to play with the ends of his hair?

For a moment her eyes were luminous, mesmerizing, _questioning_ , and he struggled to recall that _This was just Weasley, just his friend, and they were not on a Date, because they were Just Friends._

"You need a hair cut," Ginny said, and there was something in her voice that made it hard to concentrate on the facts. ( _Just a friend. Just-a-Friend. JustaFRIEND._ )

Draco nodded, because if he spoke he'd say something that he might regret later ( _Merlin, just want to bend you over that damned table and pull my shirt up your thighs and_ -), and he needs her. He needs her to not go away; she is his best friend in the world and _she's never cost him a thing_.

But this is Weasley, ( _Ginny Weasley; Gryffindor through and through- though she's sneaky and too good of a liar and wears Slytherin colors like they were made for her alone_ ) and she's always been shite at pining, too impatient now after long weeks to wait any longer.

It's not a Valentine comparing fresh pickled toad to eye color this time.

It's her fingers on his neck, pulling him forward, though to be honest he's off-kilter anyway, so maybe he just fell. Fell forward slowly onto her lips. With his eyes open. Hers were too, and he remembered that question in them before. Then her face blurred and their mouths met. It wasn't a kiss. Their lips were just barely touching really; they were just… sharing breath.

Draco's fingers were touching her arm, her hair, her neck. They ghosted across her cheek. Hers were tingling their way up his neck, through his hair. They were just friends, breathing together, enjoying each others company. Enjoying _touch_ , because friends did that, right?

Ginny's tongue darted out, wetting his upper lip, and he shifted closer, settling her more firmly on top of him. Draco's other arm had come around her, somehow, and he pressed her closer. His mouth found her bottom lip, the one that stuck out when she pouted, and he sucked it in. He couldn't remember the first time he'd wondered what it tasted like, but it seemed he could finally indulge that curiosity of his. Wine, tonight, and five-spice and mint.

Ginny's breath on his face was more a moan now. Her lip made a popping sound as she pulled it free and angled her head. Their faces were too close for him to make out any real features, but he recognized her all the same. ( _She was the only one who knew he'd grown slightly farsighted and sometimes used glasses for the really close work_.)

The kiss she laid across his lips wasn't something he recognized.

Her fingers were plucking at his shirt and what an excellent idea to get rid of it. It had grown rather warm with her, and his clothes had started to chafe. He slid away from their kiss to pull off his shirt and she _sighed_ when he did.

"I knew that grey shirt would look really good with your eyes," she murmured, and he was glad he chosen it, "but Merlin you _do_ look really good without one, too. Why bother wearing one at all when you could just go around looking like that?"

He flushed and preened a bit, his pride and cock seeming to swell in sync. Ginny fingers were firm as she traced muscle and bone, his long thin _sectumsempra_ scar, hollows and veins, focused on him in a way she generally reserved for the puzzles they solved at work. As if totally absorbed.

Draco didn't have to coax to get his shirt off of her, he just slid his palms up her hips, over her curved waist and up her rib cage. She lifted her arms over her head to allow him to tug the material free. Her breasts were lifted high on her chest when he first saw them, pink nipples tilted up as she stretched.

He saw the lines her bra had left in her skin, the reddish dents on her shoulders and in the crease under her breasts, circling her ribs. He made a soothing sound in his throat as he worked the marks with his fingers in slow circles.

Draco followed the lines with his hands, palming the heavy weight of her breasts as she lowered her arms around him. He shivered as he touched her more of her, as her nipples pebbled against the intersection of the destiny and head lines on his palms. Then he wasn't just looking and using his hands, his mouth was on her skin. On her neck first, because it felt like he'd always wondered what that patch of skin under her ear tasted like, but then-

Down.

He trailed his mouth down, smelling her, licking and nipping her, pushing his tongue against the freckles that dotted her skin. Finally her breast was under his lips and her nipple poked into his mouth and he _sucked_. Ginny's moans wove around him, her hands back in his hair, holding him in place.

Draco pushed her over just a bit and pulled out from under her to lie between her legs. It was done in an instant, hardly long enough to pull his mouth and hands away from her skin, but it felt like forever. Her breaths were deep and even, but her flushed face was more than enough to attest to how much _this_ , whatever it was that they were doing, affected her, too.

Her knickers were black and rode low on her hips. Impatient to see her, to match reality to all those fantasies he'd never let himself have, he skated his hands down her hips this time. She had golden copper hair there, neatly trimmed away from her cleft. He was focused, utterly and completely on that slit, her pussy that glistened and beckoned and smelled like arousal.

Ginny Weasley was his friend, but she was also this beautiful creature of cinnamon flecked cream and copper layered with gold. Who cared if they'd been on a date? No one cared, certainly not him, mostly because she was naked and practically writhing in front of him on this sofa halfway across the world from home. So he put all of the thoughts that kept cropping up about _tomorrow_ and _what-if_ in a box in his mind for examination later.

And he feasted. With her thighs thrown over his shoulders and that spot between her legs pushed right against his face, he devoured her. Her taste was a rush in his mouth and the texture of her was like nothing he could name. He couldn't stop; he couldn't get enough of _her_. Ginny's nails dug into his head and neck as she pulled him closer, flusher against her. Her hips jerked as his tongue slid up and down. Inside. His nose bumped her clit as he tried to map her with his tongue.

Draco shouldn't have been surprised when she came, but he was. He'd never heard that sound come from her before, that pleading moan that came from deep in her chest. She tightened and fluttered and clutched around him, that moan growing and stretching around them till she shook.

Increasingly aware that he was monstrously uncomfortable in his denims, he stretched and tried to un-kink muscles he'd not had an opportunity to use in quite some time.

Watching her come back together, that moment when her eyes found his and focused so intently on him after being undone decided it for him; he wanted more, everything she would give him. That, and if he had to disentangle himself to pull off his stupid trousers, he might as well try to get the two of them to a bed.

Malfoy was thin, but all lean muscle, and Weasley was a little thing, barely up to his collar bone, so it was easy to pick her up. It was easier still to sling her over his shoulder and stalk across to his bedroom door, to fling it open and drop her on the bed within.

He was panting, but not from exertion, as he stood before her. His denims had to come off, and it wasn't as if he'd never been naked in front of a woman before, so why was he hesitating?

His fingers shook and he fumbled with the button and the zip of his denims. Draco was never this nervous. He'd left off wearing underwear that day- it had been too bloody hot and the trousers were tight. At the time he couldn't be arsed to put them on because it had seemed clear she'd never guess or care what was going on under his clothes. Now all he could do is wonder what she thought.

Of him.

Standing in front of her trying to kick his damned denims off, his erection bobbing all over the place as he struggled. Bloody stupid trousers, he'd burn them and sprinkle the ashes in the Ganges, if only he could get them _off_ first. And then she scrambled up, her glorious breasts swaying, and she was helping him, pressing kisses randomly on his skin. His balance went and he was falling. Ginny's head snapped up just in time for her forehead to catch his cheekbone.

A white pain exploded in his face and he yelped and Ginny said, "Ouch! Bloody hell, Draco."

Rubbing a spot near her temple, she looked at him oddly, sprawled there on the floor. She reached a small hand across the space between them and pulled sharply when their palms met. She bit him on his hip as her fingers snagged fabric and somehow, between them, they pulled the denims free.

They were both in bed then, his face and her forehead forgotten for now. Draco didn't know how it had happened or who was where exactly, if he was on top or if she was and _it didn't matter_. Skin to skin, all that mattered was making her moan and tremble, just like he was. Ginny's busy mouth found him and took him in.

It was suddenly _too much_ and _really much too soon_ and he came, spurting into her, shaking from the force of it, embarrassed that it happened so quickly, glad that it had happened at all.

Draco stole a look at Ginny's face when he found the correct axis the world was supposed to tilt at. Her tongue ran around her lips, and she looked pleased, like she'd performed some immensely complex magic in record time. And she had. She really had.

This Gryffindor, his Gryffindor, she was always unafraid and rushing in where angels feared to tread, so she tugged his cock with clever fingers and arched under him, pressing against him in all sorts of interesting ways. Draco was already hard again, like he was fifteen and driven out of his mind with hormones. Ginny pushed him over, and climbed on him, straddling him and positioning herself so quickly it took his breath away.

Too late to have second thoughts, or really any thought at all, because with no effort on his behalf she was sheathing his cock.

It registered dimly in some far off corner in his mind that he should have prepared her better, that he should have played with her pussy more. She was tight and her breath hissed in his ears as he hoped it didn't hurt her because it was really fucking amazing for him.

His eyes were open, looking at her as she slid onto him in a long, slow glide, stretching her until he was fully seated. He gripped her hips and kept her still because he could. Because he wanted to remember everything about that moment, every detail about her and the way they fit, the startling rightness.

Lovely, impossibly so, as she groaned, and shifted, trying to move over him, ignoring his grip on her hips trying to keep her still. Ginny's pink nipples swayed above him, a temptation too great to resist. He leaned up to capture one with his mouth as his hips rolled under her. She panted when his hand found its way to her clit.

Ginny pushed his chest, pushed him back on the bed, and he watched as she drove herself higher, as she drove him higher, as they crested some peak he'd never imagined.

Giddy, he felt giddy and loose and perfect when she collapsed on him. Her hair floated around them, tangled into his, just like their legs were twisted together and their sweat mingled. They spent a few minutes gasping before she finally lifted her face. His arms were around her and he found himself hoping that she'd stay right where she was even if he didn't hold her in place.

She was glowing, shiny with perspiration and pink from their activities. Her fingers delicately traced the now-throbbing spot on his cheekbone. Her brown eyes sparkled, her lips twitched and then they were both laughing like loons.

"I shouldn't say this, Merlin only knows what it'll do to your ego-" Ginny mumbled against his chest a bit later, when the room was silent again and there was just the sound of their breathing.

Draco's eyes had slipped shut and his hands had been running a path up and down her spine, half asleep and mostly boneless. He made a humming sound of query, curious about what Ginny would say.

"That was, I think we both know," and his heart tripped because she couldn't say _mistake_ , "bloody fantastic. But-" he stopped her from finishing whatever it was by pressing his mouth against hers. He kissed her until she quieted and kissed him back.

"Tomorrow, Ginny, let's just talk or whatever tomorrow. OK?"

He felt her nod against his chest and once more relaxed, content for now to let sleep claim him and deal with the consequences later.

* * *

...And that's why the story is rated E.


	7. The Morning After - or - CRAP!

**I suppose it's again safe to look.**

* * *

_Holy fuck._

It slowly dawned that last night had not been some really involved, elaborate dream. Ginny had, in fact, just woken up next to Draco Lucius Malfoy. He'd taken the blankets and sheets for himself sometime during the night, and had half-wrapped himself in the coverings. This left her with just a tiny corner that barely went over one of her legs. Then again, she'd essentially taken over all available real-estate on the mattress, so perhaps it evened out in the end. Thankfully, the room wasn't freezing.

She wasn't exactly sure what had woken her, since it was still mostly dark in the room, with just a pale, grey light seeping in from under the curtains. Ginny was a bit sore, and her head ached dully. Draco's breath was ruffling the hair near her neck. It was unsettling how content she could have allowed herself to feel. Her original sense of incredulity was slowly being eroded by uncertainty, and faintly guilt.

Even just a few short weeks ago, Ginny would have bet good money that there was absolutely no chance of Draco Malfoy ever getting into her knickers. There were a variety of reasons for this, the prime being that he was- by all appearances- constitutionally incapable of serious commitment. Then again, a little over decade ago, she never would have imagined herself being even somewhat friendly with Draco, not to mention living in his Manor. She could accept that time changed things, but Ginny couldn't quite shake the feeling that something she really valued had been irrevocably altered.

What on earth had she done?

Shite, had she actually set out to seduce _Malfoy_?

Rubbing her temple, she reviewed the evening's activities mentally. A blush heated her from within as she recalled her absolutely shameless behavior. She might as well have been wearing a bloody sign that said, _Please, shag me_.

Ginny had no excuse for it, either, except for perhaps that he was Malfoy, and her feelings for him had been decidedly mixed lately. And maybe that she'd been feeling just a bit wanton. For some odd reason, even though she was exceptional at pleasing herself, regular applications of self-love were not helping lessen the _need_. Maybe, just maybe it could have the tiniest bit to do with that fact that she hadn't had sex in over a year- and that hadn't even been _good_ sex. So yes, the redhead had willingly and knowingly put on her most uncomfortable heels and the tiniest excuse for a dress that she owned.

She gently moved the arm that Draco had draped over her middle. The arm he had apparently kept wrapped around her, despite the fact that he'd been relegated to a mere sliver of the mattress. Her head started to throb in time with her steadily increasing heartbeat. A rather generous helping of mortification added itself to her woes.

There was a time and a place for self-recriminations, and that time was not then. Not when Draco was trying to snuggle closer in his sleep, poking his erection into her side. Ginny took a deep breath, held it and carefully slid to the opposite edge of the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over the side. A second later, she was nearly panting and was crouched next to the bed. She felt like the biggest idiot in the world.

The feeling did not subside while she grabbed that stupid dress or the ridiculous shoes.

Ginny spent the next few minutes moving at light-speed. The bra that gave her cleavage for days was hastily donned and she dropped the dress over her head. She wadded her knickers up and crammed them in her small purse. Rather distantly it occurred to her that she was 32 years old, and she had just had her first one night stand. With her best friend.

She decided that it was his fault. It really was. No one had any business looking like that. Smelling like that. Making her laugh or miss him like that.

Ginny was a good person, she truly was. A Gryffindor was essentially _good_ ; or at least tried to be. Then again, Gryffindor was also brave and honorable. And yet here she was, trying to sneak out of her friends' flat before the sun had a chance to properly rise, wearing the previous nights ( _well, she might as well use her Mums favorite phrase to describe anything that showed even a hint of 'skin'_ ) slatternly get-up, stinking of sex.

There was thankfully a quill and parchment conveniently located next to the front door, so she didn't have to go searching for them. Ginny scribbled a few quick words, painfully aware of her cowardice. There was an almost overwhelming desire to walk back into that bedroom, to take her clothes back off and finally to cuddle right back up to the blond.

 _Fuck it_.

Irrational urge or not, she had to at very least look in on him again. Who knew when she'd have a chance like this again? Shoes in hand, she tip-toed back to the bedroom's doorway and peeped in. How could any man possibly be so adorable? Not that she'd ever tell him anything so ludicrous; he'd probably get all squinty-faced, call her deranged before giving her a list of adjectives that were, in his opinion, far more appropriate. And for some unknown reason, she would inevitably find that absolutely, irresistibly appealing. It wasn't fair.

Draco's lips were pursed, his hair was in shambles and his sharp, grey eyes were closed, absurdly long eyelashes fanning over those high cheekbones of his. He looked different; innocent. Vulnerable in way the great Draco Malfoy never was- soft and eminently touchable. She'd only seen him like that a few times, and it always did something to her insides.

Ginny's emotions continued roiling uncontrollably and she had no idea what she felt about the whole thing. She had not considered the morning after when she'd put his shirt on last night.

She dropped the note on the nightstand and took one final look at him. Her hand reached out of its own horrid volition and twitched his baby-fine, super soft hair back from his face. He mumbled in his sleep and rolled over, burying his face in a pillow.

Without wasting further time, she went back to the living room and closed the bedroom door. Anxiety, sharper and more defined than she'd felt in a very long time seemed to be filling her up. It wasn't quite enough to drown out that other feeling she'd been getting whenever she thought of him, but it was enough to leave her a tad shaky. Ginny just knew, deep in her bones, that she had made the dumbest mistake of her life.

Thoughts of that nature were entirely too complicated to have while trying to make a stealthy exit, and if she continued along that vein, she may well escalate into a full-blown panic attack. Ginny took considerable pride in the fact that she hadn't had one in ten years. A handful of minutes later, she was still trying to find a calm center, which was extraordinarily difficult. Surprisingly, when Ginny waved her wand decisively, she actually managed to Apparate out of there.


	8. RESOLVE: to reach a firm decision about

**More smut ahead- eventually. You've been warned.**

* * *

_What the bloody fuck?_ Draco thought as he crumpled the piece of parchment he'd found on his nightstand.

_Draco,_

_I had an early meeting I couldn't be late for._

_-G_

He really couldn't believe it. Actually, there were several things he was having issues processing. The obvious one was that Ginny had gone and left him a note. Impersonal and… she'd called him Draco again. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. He knew how to be Malfoy and Git, and, yes, he could admit that he was occasionally a total Sod. He had no clue how he was supposed to be Draco to her. What did that even mean? What did she expect of him?

He looked at the face in the enchanted mirror, his face, but the reflection pulled none of its usual tricks; no winking, no smirking, no over-the-top modeling pose. Maybe the mirror was as unsettled as he was.

Draco wasn't sure exactly what he had been anticipating when he woke up; her in bed or her puttering around the flat or her in the shower. He supposed that he'd been expecting _her_.

The blond prodded the bruised flesh on his cheekbone, right under his eye with a finger, wincing a little at the pain. Eh, at least it made him look sort of rakish. He could cast a decent healing charm, but he'd had some problems ( _not entirely surprising, given the nature of his involvement in the war_ ) dealing with wands stuck near his face, even his own. That was likely why he wore those stupid glasses when he needed to see minute detail rather than just charming his eyes. Either way, the result would be the same. He'd deal with the discomfort.

Back in the living room, Draco disposed of last night's tea service and went to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot. Under normal circumstances, he would have been ecstatic that the bird from the previous night had taken herself off before he'd woken up, but in this case it left him a bit empty. Curious. He remembered the night before, the misgivings, the cascade of questions he'd diverted to a small corner of his mind. He considered examining the metaphorical box closer. This was fairly uncharacteristic of him, since he'd always dealt better with certainties than something as wishy-washy and plebian as emotions.

He was about to take his first sip of tea, when his wand vibrated and shrilled madly on the table. It could only mean that something or other had gone horribly wrong at the dig and his presence was urgently required. He hurried to get ready for the day, putting thoughts of Ginny and what the previous night meant aside. They'd shagged. It was good. End of story. With a final longing glance at the lovely porcelain cup filled with fragrant, perfectly prepared tea, he raised his wand and set it winging to the kitchen without even a single sip. Work called.

* * *

_There was no way she could be avoiding him, right?_

Sure, their schedules hadn't coincided in weeks, but that wasn't exactly unusual. They could go months at a time without seeing each other. Yes, generally they wrote or communicated in some fashion or another ( _except when he'd been the one doing the avoiding not so long ago_ ), but it couldn't be so very odd that he'd heard nothing so far. She'd not answered his other messages, but perhaps they had been too vague.

_Ginny,_

_I confess, I half-expected to hear from you already, and when I didn't, I thought you needed space. I thought I needed space. I thought, maybe, that night had been a mistake._

The quill hovered over the parchment as Draco tried to write the next bit.

A fireplace coughed in the distance and he heard the tread of boots against parquet. He didn't have to wonder why she hadn't just used the fireplace in the parlor- he knew that she liked walking through the halls sometimes, when she was thinking particularly complicated or troubling thoughts.

The cadence of her walk was exquisitely familiar, and he took an almost primal enjoyment in the sound of her steps getting closer and closer.

And then she was there, sooty and disheveled. Her red hair was wildly out of order as she paused for a moment in the doorway to shove it impatiently back from her face. Draco rather liked it that way. Ginny was plainly irritated, he could tell by those little creases she got on the sides of her nose. She was possibly the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.

"Hullo Ginny."

Not the most original greeting he'd ever come up with. Her given name felt a little funny in his mouth, but it was a bit nonsensical to call her Weasley when she'd had her… On second thought, it was probably best not to remember exactly what had been where at that particular moment. He wanted to try to keep his wits about him.

She made one of her noises, a cross between a hum and a grunt, one that he generally interpreted as ' _Why, hello there handsome, how lovely to see you'_ , but in reality probably meant something closer to ' _Why are you even talking to me, you great Git, can't you see I'm annoyed_?'

Draco scribbled two more words quickly before setting the quill aside ( _carefully, as ink stains were very stubborn, and Ginny didn't seem like she'd take pity on him and fix it_ ). He was aware that things were simply bound to be awkward. Draco had had a revelation of sorts a few days ago upon coming home from China to an empty house. It had come to him, not in a flash, but more of a slow dawning, that he had actual, genuine feelings for Ginny. He didn't just vaguely miss having another person in the house; he _longed_ to have _her_ there.

When he'd finally accepted this, this _thing_ he had absolutely no experience with previously, it terrified him as much as it amused him: Some time between 1993 and 2013 he'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a Gryffindor. And because he could never do anything halfway, naturally it had to be the most inappropriate, ill-advised of all Gryffindor's: Ginny Weasley. The strangest part of all was, perhaps, that he felt no remorse at this fact.

And why not?

Ginny had seen him through sickness, just like he'd cared for her ( _a bit reluctantly, but it still counted_ ) after that incident in the Aztec ruins when she'd been hit with a modified vomiting curse.

The redhead had been there, pouring painkilling potions down his throat after his dislocated shoulder had been yanked back into place by a very annoyed Andalusian Centaur. Of course, she'd alternately berated and fussed over him, laying the guilt on as thickly as his mother had ever done. As unlikely as it was, it had comforted him like nothing else.

She had stood by him through that time he grew out a beard, and had thankfully insisted he shave it off before returning home and people actually saw him. She'd even done him the unlikely favor of burning most of the photographic evidence that had documented that exercise in poor judgment ( _facial-hair on him looked distinctly, awkwardly flesh-colored_ ). And though she'd kept that one picture of bearded him, she only taunted him with it in private.

Maybe that was because that time she'd charmed her hair that awful black, she'd sent a picture along when she'd asked his opinion. It had only taken three words to have her charming it back- _Dear Merlin,_ _No_. Ginny had even ( _not so_ ) gracefully allowed him to lie about destroying that photograph she'd sent. He liked that she understood about mutually assured destruction- or embarrassment, in their case.

It had been a sort of surprising to discover that Ginny had been right there nearly every single time anything interesting had happened over the last decade. The realization that she'd been in the background for far longer was unexpected.

Draco just couldn't see life without Ginny anymore, and perhaps more to the point, he didn't really want to.

He caught the scent of her mum's brownies, so he didn't even have to guess where she'd been before coming home. Draco got up and helped her out of her cloak, an action that had her eyeing him as if he'd grown two heads.

"What?" he bristled a little at her glare. "I have manners," he concluded, lamely.

He tossed her cloak over a chair in the corner. Ginny smiled vaguely at him as she unwound a long, purple and undoubtedly knitted by Molly Weasley scarf from around her neck.

"Oh yes, lovely manners, just not around me, remember?" Her boots banged heavily against the floor as she chucked them into the corner.

"To which I can only reply: _Pshaw_ , Ms. Weasley. I have always comported myself with the utmost in grace and tact, even around you."

She snorted- a sound she made when she thought he was being ridiculous. Strange business this love deal, when knowing something so small about a person caused a thrill. Generally, that sort of familiarity just bred his contempt, but in her case, he'd found that he actually enjoyed each little piece of her that made the whole. Even the bits that made no sense, like her irrational hatred of custards ( _something about the texture made her gag_ ). He was actually curious to know more.

Yes, he was anxious, maybe even scared, but he was also excited, because he'd told this woman ( _witch and friend, co-worker and_ _partner_ _more times than he could count_ ) nearly every thought that had popped into his head over the past decade and she was still there.

So what did it matter if he told her just one more thing?

"I, er," _oh, shite. Breathe._ What on Merlin's green earth was he doing? "Er, I- I."

Crap, was he actually stammering?

It was possible he'd underestimated the fortitude one needed to declare ones affections so openly. He couldn't ever recall doing something that had the potential to make him so vulnerable before. Threat of imminent dismemberment? No problem. He dealt with that on a bi-weekly basis. Willingly laying himself bare before another person- even Weasley... The thought left him a bit shaky.

"Yes, Draco?" her left eyebrow arched upward, a bit vexed and a bit amused as she looked over her little pile of mail, "You what?"

Dead silence reigned for longer than was comfortable. He looked at her, she looked at him.

"I think we should fuck again," he finally blurted. Though it wasn't precisely what he had meant to say, it was certainly better than stuttering like a bloody tosser.

Draco had the pleasure of seeing the right brow wing up to join the first, while her eyes widened comically. Ginny blinked a few times, more owl than lion for once.

"Because, er, if it was like that without us practicing, just imagine what we could do if we really knew what we were doing. Sort of like-," he cast about for a comparison, "riding a broom. You know, the first time is always kind of rubbish. Fun and exhilarating and unreal, but-,"

That hand held over her mouth hid a grin, he was sure, since her eyes sparkled at him.

"Then you get up there a few times and suddenly you're zooming around doing tricks, hanging upside-down to catch the snitch-," he let his voice trail off.

"The comparison really only works if the first time could be judged to be 'rubbish', wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I don't know. You did give me a black eye," he replied, with a grin. "When we do it again, we very well could find that the first time suffers badly in contrast. Or the opposite could happen, and we could find that it was some sort of pleasant fluke," _highly unlikely that_. "Either way, I would consider the knowledge worth having, wouldn't you?"

Dubious, but apparently bemused, Ginny pulled out two glasses and the jug of Mr. Weasley's finest and seated herself on Monstrosity, the sofa.

" _When_ , eh? You're rather confident for someone who couldn't even get his trousers off without help. Besides, I'm a little miffed at you."

"Oh? Pray tell, what could I have possibly done to annoy you when we haven't so much as spoken to each other in weeks?" He mentally reviewed his activities and could recall nothing that would have warranted her irritation.

Twin puffs of steam lifted gently from the glasses she poured. Ginny patted the sofa in invitation and challenge. "Maybe I was expecting, oh I dunno, something a bit different from 'Oi, Weasley, where did you run off to?' after that night," the pink blush that rose from her cleavage to color the tips of her ears belied that calm, slightly mocking tone in her voice. Ginny was just a bit more than simply _miffed_.

For some reason, that she was so upset about it, angered him a bit, too. After all, he wasn't the one who'd left.

"First off, I was hardly that crass, and secondly... Maybe I was expecting you to actually _be_ there when I woke up. So I guess we're even," he said and basically plopped down on the sofa. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at her defiantly, fully aware that he was being a little childish.

"Maybe we both could have behaved differently," she finally conceded after a few moments of studying him. "Bottom's up."

With that it seemed that the matter was closed, dismissed for the moment anyway, but their conversation nonetheless veered towards the flirtatious despite his best intentions.

This was uncharted territory, and while he had no doubts about his ability to charm, females in particular, this was _Weasley_. She'd snort and laugh if he laid it on too thick.

Hours later they'd finally exhausted themselves. They'd played a peculiar game all evening, discussing a wide variety of subjects. They talked about the more mundane, mature topics. They'd discussed the recent call for a ban of the use of Veritaserum in underage magic-users during non-felonious investigations, which they both supported wholeheartedly, though for different reasons.

The pair had spent some time on the outrageously obscene, like that old school legend about the girl who died tried to get a shag from the giant squid. Ginny insisted it was true; Hermoine had looked it up in a History of Hogwarts once. To placate their somewhat argumentative natures, they also spent a good deal of time discussing quidditch teams. Shouting had ensued and hand gestures had increased in frequency, lewdness and grandness. Glasses were inevitably knocked over, more shots had been poured and consumed. All in all, after the initial unpleasantness it was a fantastic night.

When Ginny yawned and made to get up, Draco made a decision. He tugged her back down onto the sofa, grey eyes intent as he closed the distance between them.

It was nothing like the first time, when everything had been so new and so insanely fraught with this unspoken attraction looming. Draco hadn't _known_ that time. He kissed her, just leaned right over and pressed his mouth to hers. There was just as much of a sensation of falling from great heights this time, but he knew if he could just stick the landing he'd have a chance of surviving.

She breathed softly as he cupped her jaw. He could feel the throb of her pulse under her skin, erratic and fast.

Draco's hands slipped down, grabbing her hand in his grip to stand her up. He gave her another sound kiss, twisting his fingers through her hair. When they finally parted, he was pretty sure he was having heart palpitations. Pulling her along through the corridors they'd both fixed up, trailing breathless giggles behind them, was like nothing he'd ever experienced.

It was strangely wonderful, like walking through shared history. They had refinished the wood-work in this hallway and she'd Silencio'd him for whinging about splinters, and over there- that was where that one empty portrait suddenly flung itself after Ginny that first summer she was here. Everywhere he looked there was something of her. He recognized and accepted that fact. He couldn't help but see a whole new avenue of possible memories ( _maybe,_ _it wasn't impossible that he'd be teaching someone to play that piano in the North Wing, eventually_ ).

Ginny looked like she'd always belonged on his forest green sheets and he knew he'd never be able to look at his bed ( _the bed that had been his since his very first recollections_ ) and not see her just like that. All brown eyes, tangled red hair and smooth, slightly speckled, creamy skin. Candles flickered and the shadows of the room left them in an uneven circle of light.

Draco took his time as he removed her clothes, throwing each piece into the darkness behind him without a second thought. He traced the freckles revealed with his tongue and fingers until she was squirming and moaning, before he finally allowed himself to graze his lips over her nipples. She pulled on his clothes, trying gain enough purchase to pull them off of him, but he evaded her attempts.

"Please," she whispered into his ear, "please."

He smirked a bit against her skin as she started to writhe against him. He had yet to even touch her between her thighs. He sucked harder, felt her shudder under his lips. Draco felt his way down her stomach, smoothing his hand over her copper-gold curls, and let his fingers dip inside her.

She called his name then, her own fingers digging into his hair, as her hips pumped. A few more swipes across her clit combined with the friction of his digit rocking inside was enough to have her coming. Loudly. He'd somehow forgotten that little Weasley was so noisy, though it shouldn't have surprised him considering how vocal she tended to be in other aspects of life.

Draco licked his way down her body again, leaving her breasts and nipples for his hands to work while his mouth found her center. Her thighs shook as he used his tongue, and she still called his name.

When he'd sucked another orgasm out of her, he finally stood up to take off his clothes. The look in her eyes was almost enough to have him coming right there, but he reigned himself in. Draco was undressed in no time at all ( _if nothing else, tracksuit bottoms were very easy to remove_ ) and stretching over her. Ginny was soft and fragrant as he gathered up her legs and pushed himself into her.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready to tell her how he felt, but he was determined to enjoy whatever she would allow for as long as possible.


	9. SELF-DECEPTION: denying relevant facts

It had been inevitable. All of her good intentions, her promises that that time in China had been a blip, a momentary lapse, was exposed for the lie it was. Their limbs were tangled, sweat drying salty and cool on their flesh, a scent that was unmistakably sex lingered in the air. Even in a doze, Malfoy seemed smugly self-satisfied.

Draco had fallen asleep nearly as quickly as he had last time, and Ginny wondered briefly whether he always fell unconscious after getting his nut off.

Ginny looked over, the now guttering candles providing scant light in the inky blackness of Draco Malfoy's infamous lair. She'd been in his bedroom before, of course, but somehow it was different when one was laying next to the crown-prince of Slytherin in the middle of the night. Her attention wandered from from the blond, his face too pretty for rational thought, picking out details she'd never noticed before; the way his forest green silk sheets seemed to turn into black liquid. The carvings in the bedposts highlighted with flickering light.

Much like watching a quidditch player fly face-first into a goal post, Ginny wasn't quite able to look away, and thus her imagination, vivid as it was, played havoc on her. Meticulously carved snakes slithered and hissed, vines crept and undulated and the blank spaces between fairly quivered and seemed to ooze. Not for the first time, Ginny wondered at Draco's upbringing. In contrast to her own cozy (still pink) childhood bedroom at the Burrow, his seemed designed for nightmares, rather than pleasant daydreams.

The candles winked out, leaving the moon to make a feeble attempt at illumination. It didn't do much to curb the deeply creepy atmosphere.

Carefully removing Malfoy's arm from around her waist, the redhead slid to the other side of the bed. She grabbed the robe from the bench at the end of his bed, amused when she felt that the lining of the heavily embroidered creation was fleece.

Draco snuffled somewhere in the darkness behind her, and once again taking the cowards way out, Ginny slung the robe around her shoulders and turned to flee the room.

But not before she'd tripped over her own trousers and upended a half-column supporting a bird skeleton. Her reflexes were not quite enough to keep it from falling over.

Standing in the doorway after the almighty clatter, Ginny practically vibrated with _stay-asleep!_ thoughts. The blond spun around in his sleep, rolling the blankets around himself, making a sort of satisfied hum when he was completely enveloped. A few tufts of hair made pure white in the soft light were all that she could see of him.

Her feet barely made a sound against the shiny parquet as she dashed down hallways she was so very intimately familiar with. She'd put more than her fair share of blood, sweat and tears into the Manor's restoration. Not to mention the hassle of dealing with a pretentious, former rich kid who could barely wipe up after himself.

Which was, perhaps, just a bit unfair. He'd come a long way, not just from the insufferable child he'd been at Hogwarts, but also the young man she'd met in Egypt with a stick lodged so firmly and far up his arse that she'd considered it a miracle he could bend over.

Despite being incapable of casting a basic cooling charm back then, Draco Malfoy had proven himself capable of learning and changing, or at least her perception of him had. And he'd turned out to be rather decent at improvisation, as he'd shown when he'd transfigured a spiked ceiling moving inexorably down to crush them into oblivion into a cascade of daisies.

Somehow, instead of ending up in her room, Ginny ended up in the downstairs parlor. Not that she would admit it to Malfoy, she too had taken to calling the sofa Monstrosity. It called to her in the darkness, it's acid green, swirling paisley pattern practically luminescent.

Wrapping the blanket her Mum had knitted around her legs, Ginny attempted to find a comfortable position. There wasn't one, oddly enough. The only time she'd ever really been comfortable on the bloody thing had been when she'd shared it with Malfoy. Otherwise, it sort of felt like she'd be absorbed into the cushions, never to be seen again.

An hour later, she flipped over for the 50th time. Ginny could go back to her bed, the one with the mattress that had cost three whole paychecks and was described as feeling "like a cross between hyppogriff calf down and clouds", but she'd turned on the TV, and was half-watching a marathon of old muggle monster movies.

When she stirred herself from her thoughts about Draco, she found herself thinking that the Creature from the Black Lagoon was rather unfairly maligned, as Paludemera swamp creatures were always friendly and helpful, according to Hagrid.

During a commercial for Sleak-Easy's Hair Potion, Ginny finally stirred herself enough to go to the kitchen for a glass of chocolate milk. She would have _accoi_ 'd her wand, but she had no desire for it to make enough noise to wake Draco in it's flight to her.

On her way back to Monstrosity, Ginny was distracted by a piece of parchment still weighted on Malfoy's desk. The expensive eagle-owl quill he habitually used and abused was laying discarded and had dribbled ink into the dragon-hide desk blotter, and of course, Ginny couldn't just leave it like that.

Growing up with a bunch of man-children slobs had its advantages, she thought as she used used a bit of wandless magic to clean up the mess. If she disturbed the parchment weight, it was purely accidental, she thought, as she picked it up. Just to make sure the whole ink stain was gone.

Fine, she was totally snooping.

Or not.

The _Ginny_ at the top was leave enough to peruse the document without guilt.

Her heart stuttered when she came to the second to last sentence; _I thought, maybe, that night had been a mistake._

A hundred murderous urges flamed inside her, a thousand doubts barely suppressed reared their ugly heads, a million _what the fuck did you do_ 's bubbled up from that spectacularly unhelpful, doubt-filled part of her that had been there since Tom had left her broken and bleeding all those years ago.

The next two words might as well have been hieroglyphics for all the note she took of them.

Several deep breaths later those squiggles finally coalesced into actual words.

_It wasn't._

* * *

Winter in England was brutal sometimes. When one lived in a drafty Manor, brutal could barely be held at bay.

Months after the second time she'd fallen into bed with him, Ginny was still assiduous in avoiding actually naming what feelings she might have had about the situation. They had parted ways in July, having shagged for the second time, with little more than an awkward pat on the back.

Malfoy had had this almost constipated look on his face. He had to have known she'd found that letter. It wasn't like she'd been particularly subtle. She'd left it rolled up on his pristine dragon-hide blotter, obviously disturbed. He had yet to say a word about it.

Ginny practically twisted herself into Mobious strips trying to interpret those two words. _It wasn't._

The owl that had dropped off his latest letter was one of the long-distance relay owls, notoriously agitated creatures. This one had pecked her hand and left a crimson divot in the tender flesh between her thumb and forefinger when she'd tried to retrieve the battered parchment.

_Harpy,_

_I am writing to you from Siberia, a horrid place I am only deigning to grace with my presence because I was lured here when the offer contained phrases like "your brilliant turn at" and "no chance without your expertise"._

_Well, that and the 5,000 galleon completion bonus they've promised._

_Little do they know that I can get into the tomb in five minutes, the only real issue is the actual removal of the statue. I have a feeling it will turn into another Peru, and unfortunately my counterpart on this mission has a truly awful shriek of terror, aside from being completely useless. Really, he makes this sound that's more a squeak, and frankly, I worry I might get caught up laughing rather than running for my life, as is appropriate._

_There's nothing that will salvage this dreadful mission, but I happen to know of an assignment that has been waiting for the right two-person team._

_We are that team!_

_Agh. Excuse me. I am sure I have hypothermia, since my judgment is obviously compromised. The last time I used an exclamation point was when I was a Second year, and I was writing to my father about the necessity of having new brooms for the quidditch team._

_What I meant to say is, accept that assignment to Vietnam._

_I know you have shied away from two-person jobs, mostly because your partner can sometimes be a crapshoot. You know as well as I that we have enough seniority and expertise to request specific partners at this point in our respective careers._

_We work better together than we do apart, and I, for one, am sick of working with inferior partners._

_Hypothermia. I swear, I have hypothermia, but even so, I am asking you to please, (PLEASE,) seriously consider that Vietnam assignment._

_There's no one else I trust to watch my back, and the only other choices I've been offered are excavating a Tibetan temple or a haunted cabin in the remotest part of Iceland. Tibet or Iceland, Ginny. If I have to face another frigidly cold locale, I might just wither and die. Help me Ginevra Molly Weasley, you're my only hope._

_D_

It was his handwriting, that almost copperplate script, those freakishly regular strokes of his quill that would have made a professional calligrapher weep in envy, but Ginny was having issues reconciling the content with the author.

She sent the acceptance letter for the Vietnam trip the same day, telling herself it was because she was sick of being cold.

* * *

Ginny put up an argument ( _mostly for show_ ) when their hotel reservations had mysteriously changed from two single rooms to a single double room. There was a conference in town the receptionist patiently explained, several times. There simply weren't more rooms to be had, at the moment. When she finally gave up, she pretended she didn't realize that the blond had maneuvered the situation to his advantage.

It wasn't like she didn't want him, too.

But that extra room would have certainly made her feel more comfortable. Though rare now, she occasionally had nightmares that couldn't be hidden from someone sleeping a few skimpy inches from her. It had been years, well, since she'd been with Harry, in fact, since she'd actually slept next to someone through to breakfast the next morning. There'd been those two times she'd slept with Draco, but she didn't really count them, since they'd never even made it as far as toast in the morning.

Once in a while, a boyfriend would remark that it would have been nice to wake up next to her. She'd generally dumped them shortly afterward. She wasn't one to spread her favors around lightly, preferring a sort of comfortable monogamy to flings, but neither was she in a particular rush for anything too serious.

It was different, though, knowing there was really no way to make a timely 4am escape. Even Harry had barely noticed her absence from bed when there was the rush for sausage and bacon in the morning to distract him. Though she was aware that normal witches would gladly spend all night snuggled next to their paramour, the very idea gave Ginny a slight case of hives.

Even Harry, dear, sweet Harry, had been freaked out by her screams.

The fact that she'd not screamed, even once, in the months leading up to her internship in Egypt had sent Ginny over the moon, confident that she'd beaten the ghosts in the night. For 265 days she'd savored the fact that she woke no one with her screams of terror. Of course, it came to an end, much like her relationship with Harry. Not even two weeks back from her internship, and there she was, shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. At least she'd been back home.

Dear, sweet Harry had night-time demons of his own to fight. He hadn't needed hers as well, and that had been excuse enough to end their romantic involvement. She didn't want to talk about what she saw in her dreams, ( _really, what was the point after all?_ ) and he just stopped asking after a while. Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-Evil, had long since moved on ( _his children were lovely, and his wife even more so, so much that Ginny couldn't find it in her to even dislike Cho_ ), but once in a great while, Ginny couldn't help but to think _what if._

Their breakup had been all that was civilized; quiet voices and _understanding._ Sickly sweet, treacly understanding and good intentions. It was promises to always be friends, to be close. It was all a pretense, as far as she was concerned. It was her too embarrassed to admit that _all was not well._ It was the fact that despite her protestations of all-encompassing, positively _true_ love she couldn't be bothered to fight to keep him close, to explain that she needed him, as well.

Whether she would admit it out loud, she'd held men at arms length all her life; comfortable to be one of the boys, the cool aunt, the great friend. But nothing more. The lines in the sand so very clearly drawn.

Draco had always defied that, though. He was really good at that; defying expectations and crossing boundaries was what he did best.

It would be prudent not to think too closely about that.

* * *

Dinner had been a series of street vendors, both of them glad that their translation charm seemed to be on the fritz. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, and knowing precisely what she was putting in her mouth might have spoiled her enjoyment. Draco had pulled out the flask her Dad had given him for Christmas a few years back, tipping fiery liquor into the nuoc sam they drank with abandon.

When his arm wound around her shoulders, Ginny didn't shrug it off, though she was surprised that he was the one to initiate physical contact. Generally, she was the one to make him uncomfortable with casual physical affection.

The more she drank, the sillier the reasons she had for not jumping his bones seemed. Looking at him him through her lashes, she used her huskiest voice to suggest a quick retreat to their room. His lips on hers, the feeling of him that she'd forced herself to forget hit her like a punch in the gut. Draco's stubble, invisible, was like sand paper under her fingers as she held him in place.

The trip back to the hotel was a blur, and thinking back, all she could recall was frantic attempts to feel more of his skin. That all changed when they finally made it back to the room.

He'd laughed, a choked sound she'd never heard from him before. He'd muttered something incomprehensible about "it not being the right way".

Disappointed, she fell asleep in her pajamas while he was showering.


	10. Once More, With Feeling

Why was he in here, in the bathroom, showering, when there was a warm and willing female in the other room?

Actually, strike that.

Why was he hiding out of sight when Ginny Weasley was in the other room, and she had practically thrown him down and had her way with him?

Draco Malfoy could no longer resist the urge to bang his forehead into the tiled wall. He did it a few times, but really, it helped matters not at all. His cock hung heavy and hard, demanding attention, and, to put the finest of points on it, wanking seemed like a better idea than doing something that could potentially injure his face. If nothing else, it was something that could take the edge off, distract him from the urge to do himself physical harm.

He'd maneuvered himself into this position; canceling her reservation and making sure their arrival coincided with a huge medical conference which would leave it nigh on impossible for her to find somewhere else to stay. That stupid phrase "to make one's bed and lie in it" surfaced briefly, but he had always considered it nonsensical; he had learnt how to properly make his bed when the house elves had been let go. Only heathens slept in a bed without hospital corners.

Draco sighed as he fisted his length, the water cascading around him providing enough lubrication. He allowed himself to imagine it was her hand on him, that her breasts pressed warm and slippery against his back. With practiced strokes, he lasted really no time at all, already worked up and wanting before he'd even gotten into the shower.

Panting, he held himself up by sheer dint of will, bracing his hands on either side of his head, still pressed against that slick tile. A few moments later, Draco fumbled blindly for the soap behind him. It squirted out of his hands, clattering loudly in the enclosure of steam and glass and pounding water. A few seconds passed as he tried to motivate himself to move. A few minutes passed as he soaped up and rinsed off. Then he stood there for a long while, water pounding into his skin (the reason why he likes this hotel in the first place is that the water pressure is incredible, and the hot water endless) before he worked up enough nerve to turn the knob and shut the water off.

He spent even more time dawdling in the slowly dissipating steam, drying himself carefully, rubbing the wet from his hair and combing it, moisturizing intently, before he finally wrapped the fluffy hotel robe around himself just so.

Even for him, the amount of time he has spent cloistered in the bathroom felt excessive, but he dreaded, positively dreaded opening that door to the great beyond.

Ginny was alseep, her face lax in slumber. That line she got between her brows was smoothed out and her mouth open just slightly. Draco felt a moment of marvel that he is here, with her, like this. It wasn't that he hadn't seen her sleep before; they'd been partners far too many times for him never to have seen her thus, and her sleep habits are odd enough that he's used to having to wake her groaning as though she had just fallen asleep.

He wondered at this sometimes (more lately, admittedly); the why and how of it. Draco has seen the evidence of her night-time wakefulness so often (dirty plates and cups, half-eaten meals in the fridge, her footprints around a campsite), but he had never once thought to ask the obvious. Why?

It seems stupid now that he never did. Cowardly, somehow.

He pulled the robe off, felt a little more foolish that he had wasted such an excellent opportunity to be with her (as he had those precious few other times), and put on a pair of silk pajama bottoms, fleece being much more comfortable in excessive cold.

Draco's mind went blank as he slid into place behind her. He pulled her close, pressing her back against his front, breathing in the scent at the back of her neck.

Draco knew he was dreaming. He knew that her proximity had led him to this place in the past. He didn't mind so much; it wasn't the worst place his subconscious could have taken him.

He recognized the tunnel with ease. They were somewhere under Chichen Itza, in late 2004. It was the first time they had worked together solo, and he had been apprehensive about having a Weasley as his only back-up. They were friends at that point, certainly, but that in no way meant that he had been comfortable with the fact that she practically held his life in her hands.

They were navigating deeper into the caverns, searching for the treasure they had been sent to find, to preserve; through tunnels of dirt and stone, and across chasms that seemed to stretch all the way down to the center of the earth.

They tried to get across what amounted to a log across a canyon, ever wary of any trap that might have sprung had they used magic. Halfway across his footing, so sure at any other time, faltered, and he felt himself slipping. He was horrified, shocked and most of all scared that he had breathed his last. He scrambled trying to stop the inevitable, trying to make a deal with gravity, trying to reach his wand. A hand grabbed his wrist, just as he realized he was doomed.

Draco Malfoy looked up, into the face of his savior, unable to do much more than choke back a scream. His other hand wrapped around the arm holding his, thoughts of his wand forgotten. Ginny's face was contorted and ugly with the effort she put into holding him above oblivion. Her legs straddled the log, crossed at the ankles to hold herself as firmly in place as she could. She leaned back and slightly sideways, pulling him up slowly, her eyes closed as she grunted in a most unladylike fashion. When he let go of her to grab the log, he honestly thought he was done for. But somehow, between them, he found himself on solid ground once again.

Dream-Draco breathed, and he recalled how he had felt so grateful to be doing so, so very thankful when he felt his lungs expand that he found a laugh bubbling up.

The lumos spell provided hardly enough illumination for him to do so, but he found her eyes without any problem. The redhead nodded, acknowledging him, somehow recognizing the feelings that cascaded through him, the exhaustion that nipped at his heels.

It was too intimate by half, staring at her like that- seeing her soul; and seeing himself through a dream when he knew that the real him had been too uncomfortable to acknowledge what had just happened and what hadn't happened thanks to her quick thinking.

"That was a hell of a catch, Weasley," he finally croaked.

"Yes, well." She took a deep breath, a smile curling the corners of her mouth, "I just didn't want to deal with the paperwork involved when there's a fatality. Don't get any funny idea's, Malfoy."

Her words were softened by the smile spreading across her face, her hand sweeping over the side of his face unexpectedly.

He leaned into her touch without thought.

She stood so abruptly; patting her thighs and rubbing her wrist vigorously, that he wondered what was wrong. If she had injured herself saving him.

As it happens so often in dreams, there's a sudden, disorienting shift in time, and Draco found himself in a fully set-up campsite. A smoke-less fire burned in front of two sleeping bags, and he slurped contentedly from a large cup of soup.

(Oh. No.)

He can't remember how the topic came up, but they argued about dancing, of all things. More specifically, her talent and ability to do so. Ginny looked so affronted, so very offended at the idea that he thought she couldn't dance that when he'd spat, unthinkingly, "You couldn't waltz if your life depended on it," he should have known what was coming next.

She waved her wand decisively in his direction and he was suddenly unable to move. In the dream, the surge of panic he'd felt was immediate. Draco tried, pointlessly, to move even just a fraction of an inch, before he heard her crunch across the sandy floor, saw her step out onto that damned log that was suspended so precariously across the abyss.

Her arms raised as if to clasp someone on the shoulders, he heard her count, "One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three."

He saw her feet move lightly in the steps of the waltz. Back and forth she went, twisting and turning, dipping and flying so lightly across the log that it might as well have been a ballroom floor. With a dramatic twist of her body she looked at him over her shoulder...

...And he was swimming, holding his breath under lukewarm, turquoise water. Ginny's hand snagged his ankle, and he looked back to see her disappear into the colorful reef they were searching. Fish, a thousand varieties of fins and scales, brushed past him as he adjusted his course to follow her. He would always follow her, he knew this distantly, and in the closest corners of his heart.

…She held his hair back from his forehead, giving him leverage to throw up everything in his stomach. Why had he had so much to drink? He groaned as his stomach cramped. Ginny murmured nonsense into his hair, he felt her breath, and he relaxed because nothing truly awful could happen with her taking care of him.

Dream and reality blended as he felt her hand trying to lift his arm, and he woke suddenly, completely. With a grunt he pulled her closer, pushed himself closer to her.

"You're not going anywhere," he said without bothering to open his eyes.

She huffed and twisted, trying to get free, but his arm around her middle was implacable.

"Stay," he said, wrapped in the fragrance of her.

Stay. Don't go. Please don't leave me.

She resisted at first, but she stills eventually, breath evening out and her limbs falling heavily in defeat. Barely awake, he enjoys the bounty of the senses that she gives him; the warmth, the scents, the feel of her that tingles along his extremities. His tongue darts out before he can stop it, and he tastes the flesh he has been smelling. She's salty and fragrant with the smokes and spices they walked through earlier.

…He had felt fear before. He had felt terror. He had felt pain. He had felt death. Screams, he knew they came from his mouth; made of bitter bile and the trembling of his limbs.

She turned white, then blue, and he was lost as to how to help her. She choked and gagged, fighting for breath. A hissing voice, "So very pretty. You will do just fine. You are strong," he fights like she fights, frantically, and though he knows this isn't real, he can't stop struggling.

Darkness, weighty and all-encompassing swept over him, and he swam through the current, reaching, reaching...

It's not real. Think of something else!

"Tom!"

Draco's arms pressed her closer, and he thought, remembered and they fell light as a pair of feathers to the Tahitian beach they had celebrated his 25th birthday on.

Ginny was sweaty and breathing like she had done something ridiculous like run a marathon or saved his life.

She fell to her knees, soft sand cushioning her joints and she looked up at him. Their palms met.

Knock-knock-knock.

He cracked an eye open, horrified when the alarm clock blinked 06:00 at him.

With the greatest effort, he managed to disentangle himself from Weasley. She had pushed him right up to edge of the bed, so it was less of a matter of getting up as it was letting himself fall. Thankfully the bed was close to the floor.

He stumbled to the door, and staggered back after directing the steward to leave the tray on the corner table. It took a few minutes, and Draco found himself pressing random notes of money (far too many) in the stewards palm to get him out faster. The stewards smirk was beatific as the crisp bills Draco had passed over disappeared into a pocket and he bowed his way out of the room.

Ginny wasn't asleep when he finally turned back to face her. Her brown eyes were heavy-lidded, but intent as she patted the small (miniscule, really) amount of empty space behind her.

The scent of tea and coffee followed him into sleep.

...They stood on the hill overlooking the Manor. Her hand was small in his, and he squeezed it once or twice to be sure it was real. Ginny smiled at him, her red hair caught in the sunlight, so bright it hurt, and he...

Was awake. Again.

Ginny's breathing hitched and she rolled over. His hand cupped her jaw without thought and her eyes fluttered. Oh sweet Merlin, he was hard as a spike; his hips helplessly jerking to find friction. He wanted her so badly, he might as well not have gotten off the night before.

Her hand trailed down, finger tips sparking a firelit path down. Draco held his breath. She didn't disappoint- her fingers wrapped around his shaft as her smile became ever more mischievous.

There was light filtering through curtains too flimsy to hold back day. He felt that bone-deep certainty again- that he loves her. This witch who tears him to pieces, who puts him back together, who molds every single part of him that makes him a man. Well, Draco Malfoy would do anything for her.

He pushed her hair back from her face, the better to gaze at her expressions, and was taken aback at what he saw there: Naked want. A groan he didn't recognize filtered up from his deepest core. Want and need and something he was so prepared for, but he could barely name it.

Draco pulled her as close as he could and rolled her on top of him, needing to feel her weight, needing to feel her. She squeaked, and he was enraptured by the sound, by the streams of sunlight that tickled over her skin. She was lovely in shadow, but incandescent in daylight.

Her face, her form, her scent, her feel was burned into his memory.

His hands skimmed up her sides, roving delicately over curves that had haunted him for years. He wasn't afraid to admit that anymore.

Draco kissed her before his mouth ran away with him.


	11. The End is the Beginning, is the End

Ginny dreams. There's the all-too familiar one about Tom, but after enduring the same sense-blend of helplessness and hopelessness all these long years, this time, it feels different. It's not as bad. A paler shade of awful. It was shorter, too, ending weirdly enough, not choking and dying, but somewhere near the Manor, holding hands with Draco Malfoy.

She drifts slowly, comfortably to consciousness.

Ginny lets out an undignified squeak as she feels her body being hauled on top of another. Draco's not soft- thankfully, she supposes- and her breasts are squashed uncomfortably between them. She's got wicked dragonbreath, and he does, too. The grit in her eyes itches and the leftover scents from the previous night linger on her skin and in her hair. She's not sure if it's odd that her first impulse wasn't to hop out of bed and tidy herself.

When he kisses her, it's not unpleasant, despite their malodorous mouths, but when it's over she nonetheless reaches over to grab her wand from the nightstand and performs a breath-freshening charm first on herself, then on him. The next kiss is better, but after she repositions her breasts for comfort, she finds herself rolled under him before she can so much as take another breath.

Something in her chest twists up tight, but she is too busy being swallowed whole by Draco to bother analyzing what she's feeling. Her left knee comes up to press against his hip, and he presses forward and through two layers she feels that heat and hardness of him.

Ginny's spent a great deal of time with Draco, has, in fact, spent more time with him the last ten years of her life than anybody else. She knows what he looks like in in dim shadows, in the bright light of day, when he's sick and when he's well. She's lately seen him naked and she remembers him with his eyes pressed together and his mouth open as he moans in pleasure, though she doesn't always like to admit that to herself.

She's never seen him like this before, bright morning light filtering through his mussed, almost-white hair, a smile on his face like he's opened a present and finally gotten what he's been asking for.

The red-head can't help but return it, that smile, and she reaches up and pulls his face to hers. Even though she's been happy and content before, she can't remember the last time she'd felt so lightheaded with glee that she can't keep from grinning.

Makes kissing a bit of a challenge, with her lips refusing to purse against his, so her teeth scrape against his- which is because it seems that he can't stop smiling either. His fingers get snagged on the tangles in her hair, but she doesn't mind. Mostly, because his other hand is trying to push her vest up, and when he finally succeeds the feel of his fingers against her naked skin is nearly enough to make her come.

They pull apart, by some mutual unspoken agreement, breathing hard. He is still smiling and so is she.

Draco stands briefly, giving her the opportunity to ogle him. He pushes his hair back, it's long enough now that it hooks behind his ears neatly and watches her as she struggles to pull the tight cotton of her top over her head. His lips aren't pulled as tight now, the smile almost gone when her breasts are finally revealed.

Ginny can't help but smirk at him, he's so fascinated with breasts it's sort of cute. She drew a deep breath, watching his reaction with a silly smugness; that gaze of his makes her feel warm and confident. Draco shakes his head slightly, seems to come back his senses and pulls off his pajama bottoms.

A catch in her throat, then, because he is really _fit_. Really, very fit. She lets her eyes roam over his well proportioned body; from his wide shoulders, down to his defined chest and his muscled stomach and further to his... _willie_ , a completely childish and laughing part of her supplies. Her lips curl and she almost giggles, but she keeps looking him over- his surprisingly thick thighs and calves, his narrow and pale feet planted firmly on the ground. Ginny can practically feel him posing and flexing; she can take no more, and finally does giggle, though he's about as gorgeous a specimen of manhood as she has ever had the good fortune to look at.

Her boxer shorts with the broomsticks on them flutter to the floor in short order, and she beckons him back to bed with a jerk of her head. The mattress dips as he settles and she doesn't think twice about pushing him over and arranging his limbs to her liking- in a esthetically pleasing pose similar to the Vitruvian Man with his legs spread. She doesn't think about how she moves to kneel between his outstretched legs. She just looks at him long and hard. Malfoy twitches just a little when their bodies brush against each other. Something echoes between them and she considers the sensation in the back of her mind for a few seconds as she twists her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck before she discards the thought as irrelevant.

His hand brushes down the side of her face as she leans forward. His lips move, but whatever he is about to say is cut off, quite deliberately, by her mouth finding his hardness. He gasps instead, and she delights in this, in tormenting him further as she licks and sucks and nips. Her hands join in the party to roll his sac and knead his thigh. Draco is salty, musky and somehow fresh in her mouth.

She listens to his gasps and groans, to the nonsense he occasionally lets fly;"Merlin, Ginny" is prominent, along with the odd "Holy fuck! What was that?", but she likes it best when he just moans "Please". She feels the clench of his muscles, the jerk of his flesh against her lips, smells him, gets a little lost in the sensations until he tries to push her off, saying, "Oh, shit, wait, Ginny, I'm about to-", but of course she knows what is coming- so to speak. He erupts into her mouth and she's satisfied, deeply satisfied that she did that to him.

She lets him slide of her mouth with a pop, then just straightens and lays there head propped against his thigh while he breathes heavily somewhere up there at the top of the bed.

His hand stroked her forehead, and she is relaxed in a way she never really is. She glances across the room, notices the time.

"Fuckity fuck, Malfoy! We're going to be late!"

He rolls his eyes- she can feel it, even if she can't actually see it. She clambers out of bed, quickly, deftly avoiding his outstretched hands and grasping fingers.

"Come back to bed, Weasley. We'll never make the boat, anyway," his voice is gravelly, and she knows he'll sound that way until he gets his first cup of tea, like he's walking sex. Unfair, really, since her morning voice is the exact same as her voice at any other time. Not sexy.

She chucks a shirt at him as she darts into the bathroom, "You showered last night. Just wipe up and pack and we can be out of here in fifteen minutes."

She him sniff behind her, ignores it in favor of at least _trying_ to not miss the boat that will take them to the next stop on their itinerary.

She spends a moment enjoying the heady fall of hot water on her skin, not startled, precisely, when the glass door opens and he slips in behind her. Actually, she's a little surprised he'd held off for the few minutes he had.

"When, exactly, have you known me to be able to get ready in a fifteen minutes, Ginny?" he mutters against her wet neck. "We have no chance of catching that boat, so we'll have to just spend the rest of the day in bed."

"But, the room-."

"Already taken care of," he mumbles quietly as his hands slicks up her hips and her ribs.

Ginny sighs as his hands found her breasts, his fingers her nipples. She braces her arms against the tile, knees weak, grateful for the support of his body pressed against hers.

She tried again, "But the boat-."

"There will be another there tomorrow. Don't worry, I checked."  
"You planned this whole thing, didn't you?" she accuses with more petulance than she really feels. She almost moans since he has somehow produced soap from somewhere and he slides it across her skin in a way that nearly leaves her breathless.

"Not exactly."

"How exactly?" she returns, and her voice has lost the edge it had before, because his hand has moved to slip between her legs and frankly she could care less about how devious he is, if the result is this.

She feels a hum in his chest as he chuckles, "Well, I hadn't exactly planned on being late. Know how much you hate to be late. Why do you think there was a knock on the door at 6 in the bloody morning?"

His fingers are rubbing circles around her clit now, but not actually touching it, and it is torture and she cares even less that he has schemed, because he's _Malfoy_. He'd be someone else if he never had a plot rattling around his blond head. She tries for a witty response, but her brain has turned to empty steam and if he doesn't do something else with his fingers soon, she will _die_.

"Oh," she ends up saying.

"Anything else you have questions about? Something that needs to be cleared up?" he asks and between his body behind her and the erratic stream of water that occasionally makes contact with her skin, she feels almost without control. He presses his erection into her back, and if he hadn't had an arm around her she would have lost her balance completely.

Her hips circle restlessly and he still doesn't do anything but that maddening exploration of her lips and the area around her clit, stroking not quite inside her, "No, nope. Nothing else needs to be cleared up."

She ends up squealing that last bit because his fingers finally, _finally_ swipe across that point on her body that needs it most.

There is a thump that sort of reverberates as he drops the bar of soap, and he twists her around lifts her up and pins her to the tile in a move so smooth she's reminded why he is so very good at what he does.

Draco Malfoy is strong- almost disproportionately so for his slim build, he's fast, and holy shit he's just so bloody beautiful it sometimes hurts. Ginny doesn't question why his considerable focus has turned to her, not at the moment anyway, she just revels in it.

Her legs wind around his hips and when he slips inside her, Draco stares at her face almost unblinkingly. She can't look away, and they rock together. She grabs his limp, wet hair and pulls him close to kiss him again, groaning as his arm moves up her spine so his hand can cradle her neck. She doesn't even really notice the water anymore, nor the steam or the fact that they could both topple over and break glass and bones. Which would be both painful and embarrassing to explain, to say the least.

She comes before he does, and after he lets her down to stand- mostly- on her own two feet, she is intrigued to see his cock still standing straight and tall. She turns off the water, opens the glass door, pulls a couple of towels from the rack and pats him just enough that water no longer streams off of him, then does the same to herself. She's in a hurry, surprisingly unsatiated despite the events of the morning, surprisingly _needy_ , so she pulls him after her into the other room where she pushes him on the bed. Ginny thinks she's getting rather good at it.

She admires him laying there, all sprawled out limbs and ready confidence. She crawls on top of him and just like the first time they had done this, it's a sweet, slow slide. She meets his stare, almost glad for the bright glare of morning. It reveals to her every nuance of his reaction, the way he grimaces, the way his chest swells when he breathes deeply, the way his eyes are huge and his irises nothing but silver gilt around his pupils, hidden briefly every time his eyelids flutter. It's rather nice to see the evidence of the pleasure she gives him.

As she rides him, her hands smooth across his chest, her fingers tweak his milky pale nipples. She rubs the raspy, but invisible stubble that runs across his jaw and partway down his throat.

As she rides him, she soars.

* * *

There are days when Ginny would cheerfully strangle and/or smother Draco. A sock would do in either scenario. She's fantasizing about doing just that as they hike through a jungle in Vietnam. Sitting down in the dead leaves and dirt and insects, pulling off one of her boots and the corresponding sock and either stuffing the sock down his throat or wrapping it around his neck until he's silent.

He's verbose to the points of ridiculousness occasionally, not to mention that he's very fond of complaining. When these traits combine, he could try the patience of a saint. He's in the middle of a tirade about the state of his hair, which she has not only heard a thousand variations of, but considers nonsense. His hair looks _fine_.

Draco pauses for breath and for a moment, Ginny thinks he's finally going to shut up, but of course he keeps on. She stops short and whirls to face him. Ginny hurls her hat at him, and practically rips the colorful cotton wrap from her head.

"This!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, and points to her head. Her hair is bushier than even Hermione's on a bad day; angry, tangled, knotted hanks of red sticking up in every direction thanks to heat, humidity and sweat. "This is hair worthy of a 45 minute whinge, not that!" she screams at him as her hands flail in the general direction of his head.

He's struck speechless for a moment, but it only lasts until he can draw enough breath to guffaw. She's pretty sure she hates him. She is 100% certain that she loathes every stupid hair on his stupid head.

He laughs it up as she tries to smooth all that hair of hers back into a semblance of order, and despite her best intentions she feels her lips tug upward, as well.

He finally starts to wind down, and looks at her. It's like he shines a spotlight on her and she feels oddly weightless and _present_ , a bubble in the moment. When Draco reaches a hand towards her, smoothing her hair, Ginny smiles and knows its so wide her back teeth are showing.

"Merlin, Weasley," he says and there's still laughter tinging his voice, "I love you."

Ginny feels the answering words rise in her throat, but she can't manage to push them past the slight feeling of panic, so she nods and wraps him in a hug so tight neither can breath.

* * *

She doesn't even think twice about sleeping with him anymore, but she was still expecting some odd dreams after his announcement yesterday. Strangely, she doesn't remember having any at all, just remembers him.

There is an instant before she wakes fully, when the bright light of morning bleeds through her eyelids, and makes red shadows and neon patterns against their backs. There is this strange feeling of hope inside of her and it transports her to the another moment in time when she'd felt like this.

In 1993, Ginny Weasley had been a damaged 2nd year, too good at faking emotion. Most of her family knew she was different after the _incident_ , but she maintained a carefully curated and manicured facade for them and anyone else who cared, as close to her former self as she could manage. Ginny hated pity, ever since she could remember. Oh, Merlin, the puns. Poor, _poor_ Ginny, wearing her brothers castoffs. Poor, _poor_ Ginny, the very definition of poverty in large families. _Blech_. So she smiled and giggled, though not as much as she used to. There was the obligatory crush on Harry Potter, of course. Not that sh had to pretend over much in regards to that, he was after all extremely cute and so tragically heroic, and sometimes her crush on him felt real- too real.

Inside, behind all her falseness and forced good cheer, she was terrified.

Ginny felt like there wasn't an ounce of that famed Gryffindor courage left, like she was a fraud and if anyone knew they'd kick her out. So, fear; of failing, of not mattering, not belonging, of someone finding out what she was really like. Of those doctors and healers that had met with her in St Mungo's, who'd asked those questions, and even if she only told them lies out loud, the truth existed loudly in her mind, and that scared her, too.

But something changed that snowy day in 1993. Though the day followed typical winter patterns- darting between classes, shivering a little under her worn robes, there was an enticing patch of pristine, untouched snow. A spark of her scorched childhood called- the need to make her mark in the blank slate of fresh snow a deep-seated obsession she'd had from birth, it seemed.. It was the twins fault; their competitive streak flowing down through their family tree like sap.

She stood there, holding the garish scarf her mother knitted for Christmas, stuck between doing and immobile. A voice, _that voice_ , mocked her, and in pure defiance ( _the sun shone, the snow was clean, she was_ _alive_ ) Ginny flung herself backwards, making a clean divot in the snow. Her arms shot out and her legs scissored out and in. Totally ridiculous, absolutely completely idiotic, but Ginny made a perfect snow angel and it was made out of spite and faith. The patterns behind her eyes as she waved her arms like a mad-person, the red haze and neon flashes carried her.

She'd never managed that spell on her own before that day, but she somehow levitated herself out and left a perfect impression. Ginny looked at the blot she'd made, and for the first time in months she felt something different; satisfaction and hope and optimism, and she decided to _live_.

* * *

Fully awake, Ginny shakes Draco awake, too full of _everything_ to wait another second.

"I love you, too, Draco. I love you, too."


End file.
